


Fit For a King

by SizzleShorts



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-10
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 06:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1295224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SizzleShorts/pseuds/SizzleShorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco, a seasoned and jaded sex slave, is purchased as a Nameday gift for Jean Kirstein, the crabby Prince and future King of Trost. After a lifetime of hearing foul rumors about the Prince, Marco holds no respect for the next monarch. But he knows the deal when it comes to handling the patrons of the Sister Rose brothel; Do as you're told and do it well.</p><p>But Jean is less than enthused about receiving a living person as a present, and instead he chooses to keep the young man as a companion. Marco is even less enthused about Jean's decision, but as a lowborn rentboy suddenly thrown into a Prince’s world, he can only learn to accept his fate.</p><p>He may even learn that there's much more to the unimpressive Prince than meets the eyes.</p><p> </p><p>  <b>NOVEMBER, 2016 NOTE: STILL NOT DEAD, BELIEVE IT OR NOT. JUST A REALLY SLOW WORK-IN-PROGRESS CAUSE THIS YEAR SUCKED.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cause for Celebration

**Author's Note:**

> In which Marco’s fate is sealed and Jean might be a bit petulant.

~~~.~~~

The man is being rougher with him than they usually are.

His burly hands are gripping his hips too tightly and they're being up up at an uncomfortable angle, but Marco makes no objections, knowing that he should open his mouth only to let out his practiced exaggerated moans or to pant praises to the half-clothed man thrusting behind him.

Do the job right and it'll be over with soon enough..

The room is getting too hot now . This particular customer had insisted on keeping the windows of this room shut, probably to lower the risk of being seen in such a place, and Marco’s nose wrinkles at the musky stench of sex and cheap wine in the warm air.

The man is, of course oblivious, to Marco’s current discomforts and he just pushes the freckled boy further down into the mattress, pressing his hands against Marco’s shoulder blades as he pumps his hips harder. This new angle is even more uncomfortable but Marco makes a show of groaning and gripping the sheets, rolling his hips backwards to try and find some satisfaction in his current rut despite the fact that his own cock is only half-hard from disinterest in this whole situation. But he also knows he can’t even touch himself unless his patron orders it, and the man hasn't given him a hint of potential foreplay, so the likelihood of getting himself off is out the damn window.

Marco moans again as he glances back at the bearded man, who leers at the sight of Marco’s hooded gaze and flushed face, mistaking it for satisfaction on Marco’s part rather than the fact that the freckled boy simply playing the part of the whimpering lover until his patron is finally sated. Marco turns and buries his face into the warm blankets of his bed, trying to ignore the increasingly stifling heat of the room and the obscene slapping sound of their sweaty flesh hitting together.

That was the way things worked at the Sister Rose brothel, and Marco had learned to accept that years ago. Their multitudes of customers were here to satisfy themselves, not him, or any of the other “workers”, and keeping them all happy was the key to the success of their lewd business. Sister Rose was hardly the only brothel in their country’s huge capital, but it certainly remained the most popular, despite the considerably higher price that their Madame charged for entry (in both the literal and figurative sense of the word).

Marco’s almost impressed by how long the bearded man actually lasts, considering that most of his past patrons at that age would’ve been done and gone by now, but before much more time passes the pace of the man’s thrusts starts to have that tell-tale stutter, the knuckles of one hand digging painfully into Marco’s shoulder blades, and between his forced moans Marco lets out a breath of relief when the man pulls out at the last second, cumming onto his lower back rather than inside him. He actually prefers when they do this – it saves him from having to clean himself more thoroughly during his limited bath time for one, and even after all this time, he’s just not fond of the feeling of another man’s cum dripping down his thighs.

“Not bad,” the bearded man grunts after catching enough breath to speak again, idly stroking his softening cock with one hand and brushing a hand through Marco’s hair with the other, an action that almost makes the freckled boy shudder but he suppresses it with practiced ease. “Think yer my new favorite, boy.” Oh, happy day. On one hand it guaranteed Marco future finances, but on the other hand he'd eventually have to deal with this man again.

As usual, Marco doesn’t reply to the comments and he simply lays unmoving on the bed while the man gathers up his clothes and other belongings, tossing a small bag of coins onto the bedside table before taking his leave.

Marco is on his feet as soon as the door shuts behind his patron. He retrieves a small cloth tucked away under the corner of the mattress and wipes the lingering sweat and cum from his body. His shoulders and hips are slowly becoming sorer, and he hopes to the Gods that he doesn’t noticeably bruise again. It's not much relief, but it’s still hours until his designated time for a warm bath, and so for now the cloth is his only relief from the dirty feeling that he should’ve been all too used to by now.

Tossing the soiled cloth onto a nearby chair, Marco picks his own discarded pants up from the floor and slips them on before crossing the room and flinging the shutters of his windows open. He sighs softly as the cool breeze from outside blows in, casting some of the hot and fouled air from the room. The sound of voices from the streets below start to drift in as well, and Marco leans against the stone windowsill to stare down at the city below.

The streets of Trost are as bustling as ever, full of citizens trekking towards their homes or pushing merchant carts through the market. Laughing children scurry by with their dogs and friends chasing after them, and the occasional guard of the City Watch will walk by on patrol, nodding politely to the citizens that greet them. Marco watches them all and sighs at the sight of the freedom he no longer possesses, and a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth in spite of the envy he feels.

The life he has now probably can't be considered high-living by anyone's standards, but he’s not _entirely_ ungrateful for it. The Madame of the Sister Rose brothel had found him starving on the streets with his filthy clothes barely clinging to his underfed body. No one else had ever paid him any mind; he was just another kid who had been orphaned by rebellions in the south and was now littering the streets of Trost. A few of the more kindhearted citizens had tossed him a loaf of bread, or occasionally offered him small mugs of water, but he knows in his heart that he would’ve died on those streets like an unwanted dog if his Madame hadn’t found and taken him in.

It could’ve been worse, Marco had eventually concluded with a touch of bitterness. He was the property of the brothel, only useful to others when they were in need of a good fucking, but he had a warm bed under a sturdy roof and access to food and other nourishment daily. He was healthier than he would’ve been living anywhere else, and the pay he received from his services was decent enough, though there weren’t a lot of entertainment options that a lowborn rentboy in Trost could afford.

Maybe someday he’d finally save enough coin to venture out and leave this city far behind him. The southern lands were always a viable option. With all the settlements still recovering from the war of the last rebellion, honest work would’ve been easy to find, and Marco would’ve taken a day of manual labor over a night of easing some random man’s sexual desires.

“Oh thank the Gods, you actually opened a window this time.”

Marco startles a little at the sound of the voice behind him and he instinctively reaches to remove his pants to greet his next customer, but he relaxes when he sees that it’s a familiar young woman in a loose, light green dress sauntering in instead of another horny man. She greets him with an odd but sincere smile, rubbing a small hand towel over her damp, sandstone-colored hair. The faint scent of her recently-applied perfume wafts in after her, and Marco is relieved that the strong, flowery scent covers some of the lingering stench in his room.

“Oh, don’t bother with that, Marco,” the young woman remarks when she notices Marco’s hand still lingering at the belt of his pants, “I've seen enough cocks today to last me a lifetime, though I wouldn't be surprised if yours was superior to all of them.” Despite her crudeness, Marco finds himself smiling as the woman shuts the door behind her and crosses the room to join him by the window.

“We deal with what we have to, Hitch,” Marco remarks as Hitch leans against the windowsill as well, and they both know that he’s telling himself more than her. Hitch was barely a year older than him, having already seen her twentieth Nameday, but she’d been at the brothel even longer than he had.

The Madame had done a lot for him, but her deeds were nothing compared to what he’d come to owe Hitch over the years. She’d taken Marco under her wing the moment their Madame had brought him home without a second thought, teaching him most of the skills he knew now and even giving him his first physical lessons while he was learning to please a patron of either sex, though Marco had noted after his first male patron that he preferred a man’s touch to a woman’s, no matter how routine or uncaring it was. That news had suited their Madame just fine, and as soon as his sixteenth Nameday had passed, Marco had simply been assigned to the same wing as Hitch, servicing the many men rather than the few women that visited the Sister Rose brothel.

But unlike Marco, Hitch had always considered their job to have more advantages than losses. After all, one didn’t work their way up through the ranks like Hitch had by being bitter and cynical, two things that Marco had found himself becoming lately. Marco didn’t like the dark feeling that started to boil in his chest whenever he’d lie down to sleep, but he was slowly coming to terms with it, just as Hitch had when she was a younger man. This was their life whether they liked it or not, she'd told him, and the sooner Marco accepted that, the easier sleep would come to him.

“So, there’s a celebration coming,” Hitch finally remarks after they share a few minutes of companionable silence, and Marco glances over at her curiously. “The Prince’s eighteenth Nameday is tomorrow, and the word on the streets is that it’ll be quite a celebration going on up at the King's Castle.”  
  
“Good for the people at the castle then,” Marco grunts in reply, casting an indifferent glance towards the castle far across the city. It was an impressive sight – a stone castle built to tower high over the walls that surrounded Trost, but beyond the visual appeal Marco had no interest in the King's Castle or its royal inhabitants, especially not a Prince who, judging by the rumors he’d heard from past patrons, was a selfish little prick.

King Erwin was a good monarch to his people at least, leading with a stern but not cruel attitude. During his rule the kingdoms he oversaw had flourished and the rebellions (caused by clutches of heretics and not typical civilians) had always been snuffed out with as few causalities as possible. But it seemed like the young Prince was nothing like Erwin, and even someone as lowborn as Marco had his worries about the kind of problems that the less-than-ideal heir could cause Trost in the future.

“Don’t be like that, Marco,” Hitch sighs once she catches sight of his bored expression, elbowing him in the side hard enough to make him wince. “People here love celebrations whether they’re attending them or not. The citizens will all throw their own little parties, and we both know that men loosen their purses on days like tomorrow. Celebrations always mean bigger tips.”

“Then I guess there is something to look forward to then,” Marco replies with a shrug, saying it to pacify Hitch more than anything else. Tips were one of the few steady things in his life, and Marco knew he could rely on them whether there were celebrations going on or not. But she was right; celebrations always meant more coin being thrown around.

“Who knows, Marco, maybe the Prince will even send out some royal invites out way. Running a kingdom as large as ours has to be exhausting, and everyone needs a little relief sometimes,” Hitch muses with a teasing smile, propping one arm up and resting her chin against her palm. Marco replies with a noncommittal grunt, exchanging another quick smile with Hitch before turning his gaze back towards the King’s Castle in the distance.

Perhaps taking the day off and attending one of the many civilian parties would be fun, and if nothing else, it would’ve been a nice break from his daily schedule, which didn’t seem likely to change any time soon, even for as something as mundane to Marco as a Prince’s Nameday celebration.

“Maybe you’re right, Hitch,” Marco agrees quietly, watching as more and more people start to bustle towards the central clearing of the city, and now that he's straining to hear Marco can hears bit and pieces of conversations all centered around the Prince. “Maybe this year will have something new for us..”

~~.~~

The more people talked about it the less interested Jean became about his damned Nameday celebration. A few short nights ago he’d been more excited for his upcoming celebration than anything else he'd anticipated in a long while. Now, he just wanted the damn day to come so that he could be done with it.

Jean leans against the wide frame of the sole window in the study as he stares down into the courtyard below, where early-arriving emissaries and the many personal guests of Erwin are already beginning to gather, and Jean just scowls at the sight of the growing crowds.  
  
He already knew that it wouldn't be a private celebration; not only was he the Prince of Trost and the people’s next monarch, but it was his eighteenth Nameday. He was finally going to be considered a man by the people of the court, and his lessons with Erwin and the other members of the King's Council were going to take their next step, molding Jean to follow in Erwin’s footsteps and rule Trost as greatly as his predecessor had.

Jean already knew he was going to fail in that task.

Erwin was the kind of man who was always destined to be King, born from a noble and ancient bloodline, and he’d been raised to be a powerful leader since the day he could walk on his own. Jean, on the other hand, had spent the first twelve years of his life as a regular civilian of Trost, though his father’s titles and privileges as a nobleman in the King’s favor had allowed him to live those years with peace and plenty.

But Jean also spent those peaceful years thinking that he was simply going to inherit his father's wealth and perhaps join the City Watch when he came of age. Jean had never anticipated the dramatic turns that his life would take, or that those turns would wind up with him next in line for the throne of Trost of all things. He never once coveted the throne or the responsibilities he now had, but they were still his whether he wanted them or not, and Jean supposed that the sooner he accepted that, the easier his role would become.

He’d be a King someday. He’d have to rule the kingdoms as Erwin had; protecting the civilians from invaders and heretics, or calling for their execution if they disrupted the peace. He had to make the decisions to start or call off wars, and negotiate trade and peace with the cities beyond the sea. He’d be praised when the city was doing well and he’d be blamed when the lands fell on hard times. He would be the ruler of the lands, second only to the Gods themselves.

Oh, how he didn't want it.

Jean already knew (and was frequently reminded) that he wasn’t even half the man that King Erwin was, and he didn’t even know yet if he deserved to sit on the Throne after Erwin’s reign ended. The future he was facing was far from the life that Jean had always wanted for himself, but he’d spit on the altars of the Gods before saying that out loud. Erwin had always been so good to him, even before he’d taking Jean into his home and named the boy as his heir. But part of Jean also wished that Erwin had just married a noblewoman and sired his own children so the responsibility of ruling could remained with his bloodline rather than falling into the Kirchstein legacy.

Wretched Hells, maybe he really was just as selfish and spoiled as everyone said he was..

“Your Highness,” a quiet voice suddenly pipes up behind him, and Jean turns his head towards the study’s doorway just as a young man with shoulder-length blond hair walks in, a stack of thick leather-bound books tucked neatly under one thin arm. “May I request an audience with you?”

Jean tries not to scoff at the formality and instead he just smiles, turning around completely to face the blond man and waving a dismissive hand at him.

“There aren’t any sentries or septas breathing down our necks right now, Armin,” Jean replies, crossing the room to approach the worn oak desk that Armin was currently setting his stack of dusty books on. “Until I’m bound to that damned throne, you know you can just call me Jean.”

“Very well then, Your Royal Highness, o Prince Jean,” Armin retorts cheekily, trying not to chuckle at the way Jean’s brow crinkles. Having been one of the only other children that Jean knew while growing up at the castle, Armin was one of the few who could get away with mouthing off to Jean, and both of them knew that. Still, there was always the risk of someone overhearing their banter and taking it far more harshly than Jean did, whether Armin was the young grandson and apprentice to the Royal Treasurer or not.

“I’ll have you beheaded for treason,” Jean grouses sarcastically, and Armin chuckles under his breath as Jean walks around the desk and settles himself onto the small chair in front of it. Jean remains quiet at he looks over the stack of books that Armin had brought; official ledgers from the City Treasury, if he had to take a guess. Armin sighs quietly once he notices that Jean’s staring, and he traces a thing finger along the cover of one of the books.

“My grandfather didn’t have the strength to make it up the stairs from his room, so I've been tending to the city’s expenses again,” Armin explains quietly, and Jean doesn’t miss the brief flash of sorrow in Armin’s blue eyes, “His old battle wounds and joints are all hurting him again. Hanji brought him some poppy milk to help dull the pain, but she told me that the pains will only get worse as the weather gets colder.”

“Maybe he can go south,” Jean suggests, knowing that Armin wanted to inherit his beloved grandfather’s title through the elderly man’s retirement, not his death. “Jinae always has pretty mild weather, and this time of year even Stohess-.”

“No,” Armin interrupts, his tone being both gentle and holding an air of finality, causing Jean to promptly shut his mouth. The two sit in a thick silence for a long moment before Armin finally breaks it with a loud sigh, raising his head to look at Jean again. “Thanks for worrying, Jean, but I didn’t come down here to talk about my grandfather's.. health. I came to talk about your Nameday ceremony.”

“Oh yeah, that…” Jean replies with a sigh of his own, glancing towards his window when the faint sound of laughter drifts up from the courtyard below. Jean wrinkles his nose at the sound. “It’s going to be one hell of a ceremony. Or at least I assume it is, since for whatever reason no one’s bothered to come and get _my_ opinions on anything yet.”

“Yeah, he likes taking matters and decisions into his own hands,” Armin muses. Jean shoots a confused glance Armin's way that the blond doesn't notice. “But you know that’s just the way Eren works best-"

“Wait, did you say Eren!?” Jean suddenly interrupts, getting to his feet just as Armin lets out a gasp, closing his eyes with a wince as he realizes what he’d just let slip. The fact that it had obviously been a secret just makes Jean's chest flare with irritation again. “You all put that prick in charge of my Nameday ceremony?!”

“Jean, calm down! Everything’s going smoothly so far.” Armin assures him in defense of his estranged childhood friend, raising both hands in front of Jean placatingly, “He’s not working alone either! Connie and Sasha are both down there supervising the whole ordeal so that Eren doesn’t mess anything-"

“Connie and Sasha?! _A kitchen boy and the stable girl!?_ ” Jean snaps again, and Armin shrinks back down in his seat, rubbing his face with a groan of dread. “Was that supposed to reassure me?! By the Gods, I wouldn’t put those two in charge of my damn horses! Where are Hanji and Moblit? They were supposed to be taking care of all this, not leaving it to that trio of nitwits!”

"They're both busy with orders from King Erwin, so they can't- Wait, Jean, where are you going?" Armin blinks as Jean storms past him and out the door, and with a low whimper of apprehension Armin scrambles to his feet as well, doubling back to grab the stack of ledgers before rushing down the long hall to catch up to Jean, who was striding towards the courtyard with an angry scowl on his face.

“I really think you’re overreacting, Jean,” Armin huffs, nearly having to jog to keep up with Jean’s long strides, “They’re all actually doing a competent job, and everything’s that King Erwin planned for tomorrow is so far on schedule! Besides, Eren’s not planning out the entire thing by himself; he’s just taking care of the basic arrangements for the guests!”

“I don’t care!” Jean snaps back at the blond beside him, paying no mind to the servants that press themselves against the wall in an effort to get out of the griping Prince’s way. “I don’t want him involved in any of my damn business! Gods know I don’t even want him to attend this damn thing! If he’s here it’s only because Erwin was so close to his father, and with Connie and Sasha running around with him-!”

“ _Will you shut up_?”  
  
Jean stumbles to a sudden stop at the sound of the monotone voice and Armin staggers into him from behind, nearly sending his Prince toppling down onto the short man now standing in his path: Ser Levi, the commander of the City Watch, King Erwin’s right-hand man, and more importantly, the most skilled swordfighter that their kingdom had ever seen.

Levi stares up at Jean with his typical impassive expression, and though Levi is nearly a head shorter than him Jean still straightens up under his gaze, his face starting to flush with embarrassment when he notices a few people glancing in their direction.

“We can hear you throwing your little tantrum all the way in the throne room, brat,” Levi growls, his stern expression not wavering in the slightest when Jean frowns back at him. “Now, are you going to tell me what’s got your balls in a twist, or will you continue to rampage like a petulant child?”

“Eren.” Jean replies curtly, and he tries not to sigh when Levi just raises an eyebrow, “I don’t want him planning anything! I was told that Moblit and Hanji-“

“Moblit’s dealing with some of Erwin’s more fastidious guests at the moment,” Levi interrupts, “He’ll likely be gone until late tonight, and Hanji was attending a meeting with Erwin and myself, a meeting that was just interrupted by the sound of you whining.”

“I wasn’t whining!” Jean snaps back at him, promptly shutting his mouth when more of the servants look their way, “I’d just like someone more competent than Connie and Sasha making sure he doesn’t screw everything up.”

“I don’t know or give a damn who those two are are,” Levi sighs, already looking bored with the conversation, “As for your other complaints, Eren-”

“Eren’s actions will be nothing to worry about, Jean!” Another voice suddenly pipes up, and Levi, Jean, and Armin all stare as a brunette woman strides over and slings an arm around Levi’s shoulder, though she has to lean down a little to do so. If Jean didn't value his life so much he would've scoffed at the sight. “I’ll keep an eye on them all tonight so you can rest easy, my young lord.”

" _Tch_.. No one can rest easy with you running around, Hanji." Levi remarks, but doesn't nothing to shrug her arm off of his shoulder.

Knowing that Hanji could be just as eccentric as the trio currently plaguing his party and his mind, Jean opens his mouth to protest but then he shuts it with a resigned sigh. The grin on Hanji’s face and the scowl on Levi’s is all the proof that Jean needs to know that he’s not going to be getting his way this time.

“Fine then, just make sure it’s done right,” Jean snaps, spinning on his heel and striding past Armin and back towards the staircase leading up to his wing of the castle. Armin watches him retreat, sighing as well before facing Hanji and Levi again, giving them both a respectful nod before scurrying after the future monarch. Hanji extracts her arm from around Levi’s shoulder before folding both over her chest with a thoughtful hum, and Levi sighs under his breath, clearly glad to be done with the one-sided argument.

“Jean’s pretty high-strung for someone who’s birth is about to be celebrated by the entire city,” Hanji remarks, and Levi grunts in agreement. “The woes of a forgotten youth.. How’d we deal with such attitudes in our day, Levi?”

“I try not to remember those years. But if I had to take a guess, I’d say he either needs to fill a chamber pot or empty his balls,” Levi replies curtly, and Hanji’s nose wrinkles at his crude reply, “Considering his age, I’m leaning towards the latter. If the boy insists on stressing himself over nothing, then a good fuck will at the very least take most of those troubles right out of his mind.”

“Not a bad idea, Levi,” Hanji agrees as the two of them turn and head toward a nearby hallway to make their way back towards the eastern court that they’d just come from, “This city certainly has no shortage of brothels, and it would make a suitable gift for a boy his age.”

“Then when the opportunity shows itself, send an errand boy out to that Sister Rose brothel that Ser Aurou’s always yapping on about,” Levi replies with a wave of his hand, “Tell him to pick out a pretty one so the Prince can’t say that we never got him anything nice.” Hanji smiles a little when she hear the slightest touch of humor in Levi’s tone. As per usual his amusement was so brief that anyone else might have missed it, but Hanji didn’t spend as many years with anyone as she did with Levi without picking up on most the little things.

“I’ll send Marlowe – he’s certainly eager enough to please whenever a task needs completion,” Hanji replies as they both step back into the eastern courtyard, bowing politely to the few scattered guests still lingering around. “A gift like that should certainly pacify our young Prince for a few days.”

“One can only hope,” Levi mutters, taking two goblets of wine from a passing servant and handing one of the golden cups to Hanji before raising his own goblet up towards her. “A quick toast to our rising monarch then. Bless the upcoming Nameday of our _beloved_ Prince Jean.”

“Long may he reign,” Hanji finishes, flashing Levi a brief smile as they clack their goblets together.

~~.~~

Of all the tasks related to the Prince’s Nameday ceremony that he imagined he’d be assigned to that morning, being sent on a retrieval mission to a brothel was far from anything Marlowe Freudenberg had imagined.

He probably felt as out of place as he currently looked, judging by the curious yet amused stares he was receiving from a few of the prostitutes lingering around the room. They were probably all more than used to seeing men from the King’s Castle walk through their doors, but Marlowe guessed that those men had only come for temporary pleasures, not inquiries about a permanent purchase.

The inside of the Sister Rose brothel, Marlowe discovers, is far more luxurious that he imagined a brothel to be. The rooms are wide and spacious, and the stone walls and windows were all draped with bright red curtains that certainly gave the room a fierce aura. Candles were spread out throughout the room, all of them lit and giving off a spicy but not unpleasant scent, and there was almost something appealing about the haziness all the candles put into the air.

Behind most  of the thick curtains Marlowe can see a myriad of various wooden doors, all of them leading to personal bedrooms no doubt, and he's grateful that no sounds could be heard coming from behind said doors. This visit was making him uncomfortable enough as it was without a symphony of moaning strangers echoing in the red room.

Marlowe shifts his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly wishing that he’d discarded his cloak before entering the brothel; the candles and the curtains were certainly keeping the air warm enough, and even the light breeze drifting through the open windows isn’t helping him at all.

A few women of various ages are sitting on the cushioned seats spaced out around the room, all of them talking quietly with one another. For the most part they seemed to ignore Marlowe, for which he was also grateful, but soon their gazes started drifting back towards him, and he feels his face flushing red when the women started giggling behind their hands as they watch him.

“Will your mistress be much longer?” he finally asks them, growing more impatient with each passing second. The women just giggle again, much to his chagrin, but before he can speak up a second time the curtains draped over the doorway to his right suddenly parts, and Marlowe turns his head as a young woman with light sandstone-colored hair steps into the room, a small smirk playing on her lips.

“I’m afraid our Madame has become preoccupied with some business elsewhere, but I’m here to act in her stead. My name’s Hitch, and I’d be more than happy to help you,” the young woman purrs, coming to a stop in front of him. Marlowe sighs but simply accepts it, as trying to argue would just result in him being stuck here even longer.

“Right.. I suppose your services will do then. I need-”

“Hmm, it’s been a while since we've had a soldier in here, especially one that's as handsome as you are,” Hitch suddenly interrupts, dragging her fingertips along the length of Marlowe’s belt, and she smirks again when he hastily steps away from her and grunts when his back sudden hits a stone pillar behind him.

“I’m here on business-!”

“Aren't you all?” Hitch purrs again, and Marlowe grits his teeth when he feels a flash of irritation. He didn't care how much the other men swore by them, he definitely hated these places.

“ _Legitimate_ business,” Marlowe snaps, retrieving a small slip of paper from the pockets of his cloak. “The kind that doesn’t involve rolling around in your soiled sheets.” Hitch draws back as she accepts the paper, not batting an eye at his insults, though Marlowe does see the curiosity flash in her eyes as she reads the note, and he feels a rush of relief that she could actually read. Being stuck in a brothel full of illiterates would've been the last straw before he moved on to a different establishment.

“A purchase for the Prince,” Hitch says aloud as she hands the paper back to Marlowe, and he hears a fresh chorus of giggles as the women sitting nearby all suddenly get to their feet and retreat from the room. He looks back towards Hitch, and the look in her eyes is a little unnerving. “We've never made a permanent sell before, but we’re not so foolish as to turn down the King’s gold. So tell me, soldier, what sort of thirst does the Prince need to quench?”

“I..” Marlowe starts but then promptly trails off. He’d been so flustered when he received the command from Hanji that he hadn’t bothered to inquire for any details. Hitch simply smirks (he really wished she’d stop doing that) at his dazed expression, and he draws away from her again as she reaches out to pat a hand against his broad chest.

“Men who don’t know what they want are no mystery to me,” Hitch assures him, “Do take a seat, my dear soldier. I have _just_ the right person in mind that can satisfy our Prince Jean.”

~~~.~~~

 


	2. Discontentment Runs Amok

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jean and Marco both prepare for and dread the following day.

  
~~~.~~~

“Well, Jean,” Armin sighs as he follows Jean back into the small study, leaning against the doorframe as Jean strides over to his desk. “That was surprisingly civil compared to most of your confrontations with Levi, though that’s probably because Eren wasn’t actually present this time.”

“I just made an ass of myself in front of half the King’s Council, so thanks Armin; your jokes are very much appreciated.” Jean snaps, dropping himself down onto his chair with a heavy sigh. Armin frowns but he looks only slightly apologetic as he steps into the room, setting his books back down onto the desk before turning to face Jean.

“I did tell you that you were overreacting,” Armin reminds him quietly, and Jean glares up at him. The look nearly makes the skinny blond flinch, and Jean’s almost impressed when he doesn’t. “Jean, I know you don’t like him but believe it or not Eren’s doing this as favor to you. He’s not trying to secretly spite you or anything.. Not this time, at least.”

“Armin, I don’t care why Eren is or isn’t doing all this; it’s the fact that _he’s_ the one doing it in the first place.”

“Could you at least try to make an effort to get along? He’s my best friend after all, and-”

“He’s a damned annoying ass,” Jean interrupts, fixing the blond with another fierce glare, “And I don’t care that he’s been your best friend since we were all babes still playing in the city streets, so stop trying to make me like him!”

“I doubt that even the Gods themselves could persuade you, Jean,” Armin says with an exasperated sigh, all traces of his former patience now gone. Jean watches with a stubbornly furrowed brow as Armin collects his books and turns to exit the room, though the blond pauses by the doorway to look back at him. “I suggest you try to relieve some tension before tomorrow night, Jean. You’ll have a lot of eyes watching you, and you should know by now that the King’s Council and the Lords of the court aren’t as forgiving to childish behavior as your friends are.”

Jean scowls again but doesn’t reply, and as soon as Armin is gone, shutting the door behind him with more force than necessary, Jean sinks back in his seat with a heavy sigh of his own, running a hand through his tousled hair.

Brilliant. Damned brilliant of him.

Armin was one of the few people that Jean could genuinely consider a friend, and yet again he’d kept arguing like a stubborn ass until he finally pushed the blond boy’s patience over the edge. That was no easy task, and it definitely left a lot of guilt behind.

Armin would forgive him before the night was up, as he always did. He was never the sort to hold a grudge for long, unlike his two closest companions, but for once that knowledge didn’t comfort Jean. He’d been in the wrong this time, or rather _again_ , and he doubted that an apology right now would do him any good. No one ever seemed to take his apologies seriously anymore..

..But then again, Jean felt that his anger was at least a little justified. After all, Armin had known before Jean did that Eren had taken control of the preparations for the party, and he should’ve already known that Jean wouldn’t want Eren involved with the planning of any of his affairs anymore, especially after the stunt he’d pulled at Jean’s sixteenth Nameday ceremony. Jean still flushed with embarrassment when he thought about it, and he was pretty sure that he still has a scar on his lower back from that damn horses’ hoof..

“I’m not wrong,” Jean tells himself as he gets to his feet, smoothing the wrinkles from the front of his light brown tunic before adjusting his belt and making himself otherwise presentable. He doubted that he would run into anyone on his way to the Northern Tower, but Erwin always told him that he should always look presentable, especially if he were to cross paths with one of their more esteemed guests, while Hanji always said that as a representation for the people, his appearance while in the castle, like Erwin’s, always had to reflect the wealth and dignity of the kingdom’s capital city.

Levi just told him not to look like a damned slob all the time, but the sentiment was the same. More or less.

Satisfied that he was presentable, at least as presentable as he felt like being, Jean strode out of the room and shut the door quietly behind him, muttering “I’m not wrong” to himself once more before heading down the long hallways and making his way towards the far tower on the northern wing of the castle.

~~.~~

“I’m being gifted to the Prince?!” Marco repeats, shaking his head in disbelief as he paces around his room, “Wretched Hells, have you finally lost your mind to a fever, Hitch?!”

“Oh Marco, don’t act like it’s the end of the kingdoms,” Hitch sighs from where she’s lounged across Marco’s bed, fiddling idly with a loose string in his blanket. “You’ll be living in a castle surrounded by wealthy and prosperity, with a soft bed and the guarantee of warm meals, not to mention bedding a handsome Prince every night. Honestly, I had half a mind to offer myself instead, so what’s there to complain about?”

“Do you mean aside from the fact that I don’t _want_ to be the Prince’s bed toy? Especially not one with a foul reputation like Prince Jean’s!” Marco snaps back at her, still angrily pacing as he runs a hand through his short black hair. “I know this life isn’t much Hitch, but it’s all I’ve got.. I’ve been trying to years to save up enough money to leave this city and now I’m to be saddled with a Prince that I don’t even support!”

“You don’t even know the boy,” Hitch replies, rolling her eyes as she sits up, “Face it; this life is nearly impossible to leave, Marco, otherwise I’d be sailing to an oasis across the sea by now. Whether you think so or not, being a gift to Prince Jean is the best chance of a good future that you have. Besides, our Madame already knows about the sale, and she’d throw us both off of the walls before passing up on this opportunity.”

“Wretched Hells,” Marco mutters again, sighing heavily in defeat as he sinks down onto the chair settled beside his window. He really hates to admit it but he knows that Hitch was right. It would take him most of his life to save up enough money to leave the city and live comfortably elsewhere. He still had no interest in that spoiled Prince that would one day rule them all, but at this point, he really was Marco’s best chance at having a half-decent life.

He’d be well provided for if nothing else. He heard tale that the servants of the Castle lived good lives and most were treated with a surprising amount of respect. Like hitch said, they had warm beds to sleep in, a guaranteed source of food, and he’d heard rumors that some of the senior servants were even given wages for their services. It was a privileged life, and he’d be a damned fool to pass it up.

Besides, it wasn’t like that choice was his to make either. Marco just hoped that the Prince liked men sharing his bed.

“Marco,” Hitch speaks up with a surprising tenderness to her voice, and Marco sighs again before getting to his feet, crossing the room and settling himself down on the bed beside her. Hitch smiles as he leans his head against her shoulder, and she starts to combs her fingers through his hair; it’s not an overly intimate gesture, but it’s one that’s comforted him since his first day under their Madame’s roof.

“I wish you could at least come with me, Hitch. It’d be a whole lot easier, knowing that you were there.” Marco mutters against her shoulder, and Hitch leans over to bump her forehead lightly against his, giving him one of her rare but genuine smiles.

“I wish it too, but the King’s castle is no place for the likes of me, Marco. My place is here, and yeah, it’s a damn crude lifestyle, but it’s the one I chose,” she replies honestly before giving his shoulder an affectionate nudge, “This life never suited you anyway. You’ve got a future and it’s not here – it’s up in that castle with the Prince.”

“Right,” Marco sighs again as he lifts his head, peering through the window to look at the castle visible in the distance, “My future’s with the great Prince Jean. I pray that the Gods are merciful..”

“They rarely are,” Hitch remarks as she climbs off the bed and gives Marco’s shoulder a light pat, “Now come, we’ve got to get you ready. There’s a soldier downstairs waiting for you and he looked like he was going to faint if he had to stay here much longer.”

The Sister Rose brothel was hardly a place that he could fondly call his home, but Marco couldn’t help but look around his room as he packs up his small bag of belongings. Most of his life he’d been there, and now, thanks to a single decision from his Madame, he was likely to never see this place again.

He wouldn’t miss the customers, of course, but he’d miss Hitch, and a few of the other prostitutes he’d bonded with over the years. Yes, they were on a bottom rung in society, but they’d all been forced into that lifestyle out of necessity. When you made your living by selling your body, arrogance was hardly a trait you gained, unlike the people at the Castle he was going to be carted up to within a few minutes..

“Don’t dawdle, Marco. Your Prince is waiting,” Hitch suddenly sings from the doorway, and Marco tries not to roll his eyes as he steps out of the room, shutting the door behind him with an echoing thud. Hitch watches him silently, her expression unreadable, but she smiles again when she meets Marco’s gaze and leads him down the hallway, back towards the central room where Marlowe stands waiting.

“Finally,” Marlowe grunts as they step into the room, and Marco almost laughs when he sees that the soldier is completely tensed up, surrounded by women and looking distinctly uncomfortable with the whole situation. “This is the one?” he asks with a nod towards Marco, and Hitch hums as she nods back at him.

“This is Marco, one of our best,” Hitch purrs, rubbing a hand over Marco’s chest and Marlowe looks away, his expression a mixture of embarrassment and impatience.

“I’ll take your word for it. Let’s just hope for his sake that he can satisfy the Prince,” Marlowe remarks and he shrugs off the giggling women clinging to him, and Marco’s steps briefly falter. He’d never had a dissatisfied customer here before, but they were just simple mid-born men with a few coins to spare. A Prince could’ve been an entirely different story, and if he were unsatisfactory in the Prince’s eyes..

“Don’t you worry about that, my dear soldier,” Hitch chuckles, striding over to Marlowe and embracing him lightly in spite of Marlowe’s attempts to lean away from her. “If he needs any further lessons, I can come to the castle and teach him, and maybe I’ll teach you a thing or two while I’m there.”

“W-We’ll be leaving now!” Marlowe replies loudly, and Marco snickers under his breath when Hitch shoots him a satisfied grin. As he passes by, Marco leans over and places a quick but affectionate kiss on her cheek, a gesture that Hitch returns.

“Take care, Hitch,” Marco tells her quietly, and Hitch smiles again before placing another small kiss on his other cheek.

“Likewise, Marco, and don’t forget to put my lessons to good use. They might get me in good graces with those handsome royal soldiers.”

Yes, Marco would definitely miss her..

Marco smiles again, embracing Hitch lightly with one arm before following Marlowe outside. Despite everything he’d just left behind, stepping through the doorway of the Sister Rose brothel seemed to suddenly lift a weight from his chest.

“That’s all you’re bringing?” Marlowe asks as they step outside and head towards a small horse-drawn cart, raising an eyebrow as he looks at the small bag Marco’s gripping in his hand.

“It’s all I have,” Marco replies with a touch of bitterness in his voice, though he’s briefly glad to see that Marlowe does look a little apologetic after that. It was still too early to say, but maybe there actually were a few in the castle that weren’t arrogant pricks.

“There’s a few septas waiting for you at the castle. They’ll help you get settled in,” Marlowe remarks, nodding to the coachman as they climb onto the cart. He settles back easily as the cart lurches forward but Marco nearly slumps sideways, gripping the edge of the cart’s siding as he pulls himself back upright. “The Prince’s Nameday celebration is tomorrow, though the main celebration won’t start until after nightfall. I’d rest easy until he has use for you.”

“Right,” Marco mutters, feeling like he should’ve been insulted by Marlowe’s dismissive tone in spite of the fact that Marlowe had spoken with no intended malice. “So what’s he like then, the Prince?”

“He’s much like any other royal his age, I suppose,” Marlowe answers with a shrug, “I don’t personally know any other princes, aside from the ones from overseas that will occasionally show up to the King’s Annual Banquet, so I don’t have a lot of examples to compare him to. He could be worse, but to put it kindly.. he’s no Erwin.”

“Does everyone think so little of him?” Marco wonders aloud, his gaze drifting the civilians mingling about as the cart weaved its way through the streets. Marlowe sighs quietly, suddenly looking a little uncomfortable with the conversation.

“Not to say that Prince Jean doesn’t try, but like I said – he’s nothing like our King,” Marlowe mutters in reply, “Erwin is a powerful man in both status and mind. He always seems to know the best course of action to take, and he can quickly make tough decisions that would taunt men for days. Jean just doesn’t seem like the one willing to make sacrifices. Maybe that will someday prove to be a good thing, but for now.. I have my doubts about him, just like everyone else I know does.”

Marco can’t help but blink in surprise. Here he was, a boy who had to sell his body to strangers just to get through the day, and already it seemed that people he knew thought more of _him_ than they did of Jean, their future king.

Still, Marco couldn’t really find it in himself to feel bad for the Prince. The reputation of a monarch was always built by the people and therefore well-deserved, after all.

Marlowe is quiet now, almost looking as if he regretted what he said to Marco, but as the minutes stretched by the freckled boy finally looks away from Marlowe and stares up at the buildings that they pass, which all seem to become larger and more extravagant the closer they got to the gates of the King’s Castle. Some of them were even larger than the brothel had been, and it was almost hard to believe that these were simply homes and not shops.

The remainder of the ride is spent in relative silence. Marlowe asks no more questions, and Marco makes no more inquiries either, beyond occasionally asking about the function of a certain building that they were passing. The closer they got to the castle, Marco eventually notices, the less populated the pathways were becoming as well. Soon there were no more kids or stray dogs lingering about, and the only civilians that they saw were all dressed in crisp, fresh clothing. The streets were cleaner, the houses and shops in better condition, and even the tangy stench of the inner city air was becoming less noticeable. None of the districts in Trost could be considered slums to any extent, but there was no denying that the people lived in this area were definitely a better class.

“The King’s Lords and their families live here,” Marlowe confirms when he notices Marco staring at their surroundings, “There are a few families of the royal guard settled around as well. If you’re not a Highborn, or at the very least related to a well-paid soldier in the castle, you’ve got no chance at affording a house here.”

Marco hums quietly to acknowledge Marlowe’s words but he makes no further reply, keeping his gaze on the buildings towering around them and looking away only when he felt the cart lurch to a sudden stop. Marco turns towards his riding companion to speak, but trails off when he sees the huge wall towering over them. It’s taller than all of the buildings, built from dark red bricks, and the gate door is crafted from thick iron that dully reflects the light of the sun.

The Castle Gates, Marco realizes as he looks the construction over with noticeable awe.

Marlowe quickly sits, talking in hushed tones to the pair of men guarding the gate. One of them glances at Marco after Marlowe gestures towards him, eyes narrowing through the slots of his helmet, but Marco’s gaze is locked on the pike in his hands, the blade of which glints much more brightly than the gate’s iron door had. He may have been an intended gift to the Prince, but it was becoming very clear now that his sort didn’t often pass through these gates.

“Open it up,” the other soldier finally calls out to an unseen companion, his voice a little slurred, and Marlowe settles back in his spot again as the grid door of the gate starts to rise up, the metal chains creaking from the efforts.

“Thank you, Hannes,” Marlowe calls back to the guard after the cart passes through, and Marco turns in his seat as the gate starts to close again, swallowing with apprehension as the iron door hits the cobblestone street with an echoing clang. Well, unless the Prince was dissatisfied with him, there would definitely be no going back now..

The cart crosses a small courtyard before lurching to a stop again, and Marlowe climbs out before looking back at Marco and gesturing for him to follow. Marco quickly climbs out, grabbing his small bag of belongings as he does, and he takes a look around at the stone walls and high towers around them before he follows after his guide.

There are more guards lingering about on the upper levels of the walls than Marco can count (not that that was an impressive number), and the few servants that passed by them are all clean, well-dressed and seemed to all be in good spirits.

 _It must’ve been nice_ , Marco thinks as he follows Marlowe up a wide staircase built into the walls, _to not dread the day as soon as you wake up_.

“Petra! Hanji!” Marlowe suddenly calls out as they step into a wide hallway, and Marco jumps in surprise at the hollow echo, “I’ve returned with the Prince’s gift.”

“Just one moment, Marlowe!” a woman’s voice calls back seconds later through a nearby doorway, and Marlowe sighs as he stops walking, folding his arms behind his back. Marco comes to a stop beside him, and can’t help but notice that, in spite of his sighing, Marlowe didn’t look annoyed with having to wait this time. A few more minutes pass before a young woman with light ginger-colored hair walks out of the room, and she’s followed shortly by a bespectacled brunette. They’re both clad in breeches and thick tunics belted by black leather straps. Unlike the brunette, the ginger-haired woman has a short sword strapped to the left side of her belt, briefly startling Marco, and he recognizes the dark moss-colored cloak that she’s wearing as well; it was a garment worn only by the royal guards in the City Watch, which gave them the informal title of ‘Green Cloaks’ that they had amongst civilians.

“So this is him, hmm?” the brunette woman asks, and Marco tenses up a little as she circles around him, raising his arms, tousling his hair, and turning his head every which way as if looking him over for some random hidden flaws. she then reaches for his belt, and though Marco doesn’t move to stop them he does feel a rush of relief when Petra smacks the approaching hand away, and it just elicits a snicker form the bizarre brunette. “Not a bad choice at all, Marlowe! I’m a little surprised that you thought to pick a boy, but of course we know that Prince Jean’s no stranger to sharing a bed with another lad, eh?”

“Hanji!” the blonde woman huffs, though the amused smiled she gives the brunette makes her scolding seem very half-hearted. “Please be polite. No matter the circumstances, Marco is new here, and he’s also a guest right now.” Hanji just shrugs back at her with a grin, and Marco can’t help but step a little closer to Petra. She notices the movement, but just gives him a warm smile before turning towards Marlowe. “I can take care of him from here – thank you, Marlowe.”

“Right then, back to my duties,” Marlowe replies, giving them both a brief nod before casting Marco a look that clearly says ‘good luck’ before he walks off and disappears around a nearby corner, the echo of his footsteps soon fading away. Marco shifts a little under the gaze of both Petra and Hanji, feeling more out of place than before, but when Petra reaches out and sets a hand on his arm he feels some of the anxiety immediately melt away. The maternal touch made him think of Hitch, and Marco tried to ignore the pang when he thinks of her.

“Well, I’d better get back to the Council room now – with Erwin and I both out of the room, Levi’s likely to be at Nile’s throat again,” Hanji remarks, and the unfamiliar names buzz in Marco’s head as Hanji pats Petra’s shoulder and grins. “Take good care of him, Petra – I leave you to it!”

With that Hanji spins around and heads off the same way Marlowe had gone, humming happily under her breath and Marco just stares; Hanji was definitely not the type of person he’d ever met before, and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. But still.. Marlowe, Petra, Hanji.. It seems like so far, he’s definitely been misjudging the people at the castle, though three people could hardly sway his opinions with absolute certainty.

Shaking his head, Marco turns his gaze back to Petra, who gives him another warm smile than instantly calms him.

“Hanji’s a little eccentric, but she's actually pretty harmless, once you get to know her,” Petra assures him, though that only calms Marco down a little. “I’m sure you heard Marlowe say it already, but I’m Petra.”

“I’m, uh.. I’m Marco,” the freckled boy replies, and it feels unusual to be introducing himself to someone new. The kind of people he was used to being surrounded by weren’t typically interested in his name, only in his skills. But Petra just smiles again and motions for him to follow her as she walks down the hallway, going only a few yards before turning down another corridor.

“So, Miss Petra, are you one of the ‘Septas’ that Marlowe mentioned?” Marco asks uncertainly after a few moments of silence, and Petra looks briefly surprised but amused as she shakes her head.

“No, no.. The Septas are the handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting around here. I’m a member of the City Watch,” she replies, and she chuckles quietly at Marco’s stunned expression, “A standard reaction at last - I’ve had much worse responses to that from men before.”

“S-Sorry,” Marco quietly apologizes, “I just.. There’s no simpler way to put this, but you just don’t look like someone who’d be in the City Watch.” He shrugs sheepishly, but Petra just shrugs back as well, not seeming even mildly insulted by his words, and he exhales with relief at that.

“It works to my advantage, actually,” Petra replies, stepping to the side when a few actual Septas walk past them and Marco quickly ducks sideways as well to avoid a woman carrying an alarmingly high stack of pewter dinner plates. “The more an enemy foolishly underestimates you, the better an advantage you have during a counter-attack. Being a woman, and a lowborn one at that, I’m more than used to being overlooked and mocked, but all those pretty insults didn’t stop me from gaining my rank.”

“You’re a Lowborn, Miss Petra?” Marco asks with surprise, “I always assumed that everyone here was a Highborn, or at least close to it..”

“Just Petra is fine, and no – I’m as Lowborn as you are,” she answers, and once again, Marco almost feels like he should be insulted. “My father’s actually a shoemaker on the far side of Trost, and his shop’s very close to where you came from. You’d be surprised what kinds of origins most of us have, Marco, so don’t assume that you’re completely alone here,” she says as they enter a hallway lined with wooden doors and finally comes to a stop in front of the door on the right side at the farthest end. “Anyway, this’ll be your room.”

“My room?” Marco blinks, brow furrowing in confusion. “I wasn’t expecting.. Won’t I be sleeping in Prince Jean’s room?”

“Only when he asks it of you. But even if he wants your company every night, you’re entitled to your own room, Marco,” Petra replies as she pushes the door open and steps back so Marco can walk in and look around.

A neatly-made bed rests in the right corner of the room, thick quilts folded on top of it, and there was a small, bare table settled beside it. A large wooden trunk was pushed up against the opposite wall, and bright light shone through the small window carved into the back wall, its thin curtains flitting in the soft breeze drifting in. The room was small, and a little crowded with the large furniture, but it was much more than Marco had been expecting.

It was perfect, and Marco found himself wishing once more that Hitch was there with him.

“Is everything to your liking, Marco?” Petra asks tentatively, jarring Marco from his thoughts. He turns around to face her with a warm smile, nodding.

“It’s wonderful,” he replies honestly, “Thank you, Petra.” Petra smiles and looks relieved, and once more Marco finds himself surprised; a member of the esteemed City Watch was actually concerning herself over his satisfaction. It was a foreign feeling, to say the least.

“I’ll let you get settled then,” Petra says as Marco crosses the room to look down into the bustling servant’s yard below. “It’s rather busy today, what with all the preparation for the Prince’s Nameday tomorrow, but there’s people lingering all around if you need anything, Marco. I have to return to my post now, but if you’d like you can explore a little as well, just don’t go past the courtyard with the fountains, and don’t go into the Northern Tower.”

“What’s in the Northern-?” Marco starts to ask, but when he turns around again the doorway is empty, and he can faintly hear the sound of Petra’s retreating footsteps.

Oh well..

With a soft sigh, Marco sets his small bag of belongings into the wooden trunk, clipping it shut before stepping out into the hallway. It’s empty, though he can see people moving back and forth at the far end. Marco glances back into his new room once more before pulling the door shut and making his way back down the hall. If these were to be his quarters when the Prince had no use for him, perhaps some exploring would do him some good…

Marco steps back out into the main corridor, but he hardly takes two steps forward before someone suddenly knocks into him. Marco yelps, staggering to the side as he stumbles down, but a pair of strong arms grabs him by the wrist at the last second, his head only a few inches away from hitting the ground. Marco grunts again as he’s pulled upright, wincing slightly from the tug his arm is given, and he breaths out a quick “Thanks” as he rubs his sore wrist.

“Sorry about that,” a masculine voice says, and Marco straightens himself up before facing his savior/assaulter.

It’s a young man, probably a year or so younger than him and, speaking quite frankly, he was one of the most handsome boys Marco had ever seen. He's tall, though still a few inches shorter than himself, and with sharp, angular features. His spiky hair is an odd sandstone color and it's cropped very short around the lower half to reveal the dark brown roots. Marlowe had a similar shaved haircut, Marco suddenly remembers. If this boy was a member of the City Watch then it must’ve been a popular tradition.

He looks genuinely apologetic as he helps Marco straighten himself up, but the sharp look in his tawny, mead-colored eyes nearly makes Marco flinch away from him. He’d seen that sort of look in another person’s eyes before many times; it was the fierce gaze that someone earned after they'd suffered through some sort of personal hell.

“Sorry,” the young man says again, giving Marco’s arm a light pat as he steps around him and continues walking. Marco watches him curiously, wondering where he was off to in such a hurry. He seemed like he was in more of a rush than any of the other servants Marco had seen.

The boy turns into a small corridor up ahead, and Marco opens his mouth to call out to him when he remembers Petra’s warning to stay out of the Northern Tower, but then he stops himself. He didn’t know who that boy was or what he was doing, so there was no way of knowing what privileges he might’ve had that Marco did not. Maybe he was allowed in the Northern Tower, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was in the City Watch, maybe he was a certain errand boy. Marco didn’t know.

All he did know what that his shoulder was still tingling from where the boy had touched him, and he certainly wouldn’t object to crossing paths with him again.

~~~.~~~

 


	3. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the second meeting mirrors the first.

~~~.~~~

The sun is shining through the window when Marco wakes up and he’s instantly grateful that his bed is tucked into a corner, shielding him from its bright glare. He sits up with yawn, rubbing a hand over his eyes and only very briefly wonders where he is before recalling that he’s in his new room, tucked away in the King’s Castle. Being rented and taken home overnight by a patron wasn’t something that Marco was unfamiliar with, so waking up in a strange bed isn’t what had briefly startled him; the lack of another body sharing that bed is.

Marco lies back in the bed again, running a hand through his tousled hair before stretching his limbs out until they hit the headboards and the wall beside him. No one was breathing a putrid mix of wine and morning breath into his face. No one was waking him up by rolling him over and tugging his pants down before he’d even opened his eyes. No one was tossing him a few spare coins and demanding that he get dressed and be gone before someone important saw him.

Waking up alone was definitely an underrated sensation.

Marco yawns again as the sluggishness of sleep starts to creep back his mind, but he sits up again when he suddenly becomes aware of the chorus of voices drifting into his room from outside. His curiosity overtakes the desire to stay tucked under the warm sheets, and Marco scrambles off of the bed, picking up his frayed shirt from where he’d discarded it on the floor last night and tugging it on as he reaches the window.

The courtyard below is full of activity and packed with servants, from men carrying loads of firewood and barrels of wine to some septas shooing a few lingering children out of their way. A few people walk below the window and towards the kitchen’s storage sheds, arms laden with sacks of flour or baskets of fruits and bread, and Marco briefly sees Marlowe moving amongst the crowds alongside a young man with wispy gray hair, both of them barking out commands and making corrections as they go.

As Marco watches them all going back and forth, calling out requests for assistance or announcing new tasks that needed to be started, he can’t help but notice that there was not one foul expression to be seen. That was something else new to him; when he’d lounge around with the others back at the brothel they were rarely in good spirits, always frowning as they shared stories about their mundane nights with the multiple patrons and mocking some of the more vocal customers they’d dealt with until it was time for the brothel to open up again, and then they’d put on the pretty smiles and speak with those cheery tones.

All of these people seemed genuinely happy to be doing what that did, and bustled around like they didn’t have any regret in their lives. He wondered what that felt like.

“Marco? Are you awake?” a muffled but familiar voice suddenly calls through the door. Marco straightens up reaches down to unfasten his belt but then stops himself when he recalls that it’s Petra speaking to him, not a nameless patron, and that he’s not a public rentboy anymore. You’re not at the Sister Rose brothel anymore, he reminds himself with a soft sigh, You undress for no one but the Prince now.

“Marco?” Petra’s voice persists, and Marco quickly crosses the room to open the door after refastening his belt. He greets Petra with a warm smile, which she returns with one of her own. Marco first notes that while she was wearing the same traditional uniform that she’d been wearing yesterday, her green cloak was nowhere to be seen, and now that he thought about it, he couldn’t recall seeing Marlowe or his gray-haired companion wearing their cloaks either.

“Sorry if I woke you, but I thought you’d want to get some breakfast before the kitchens become too chaotic,” Petra says, and before Marco can reply his stomach lets out a low growl, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon, though a few elderly septas had offers him some bread while he’d been exploring the castle that night. Unaccustomed to being suddenly treated with hospitality, Marco had refused them in spite of the hunger he’d felt, something that he definitely regretted now. Petra glances down at his grumbling belly briefly before giving him another soft smile. “I’ll take that as a yes?”

“Yes,” Marco replies, his face flushing lightly as he clears his throat, “I’ll head down to the kitchens in just a moment. Thank you, Petra.” The ginger-haired woman gives him a curt nod in reply before spinning on her heel and retreating down the hall once more, though she suddenly pauses and looks back at him.

“By the way, you’re free to go out and enjoy today’s activities, since you won’t be presented to the Prince until tonight,” Petra calls back to him, and Marco’s stomach briefly churns at the thought of finally meeting his new owner face-to-face (or face-to-lap, face-to-mattress.. he could handle any option). “Just don’t get in anyone’s way, avoiding the King’s Guard, and don’t get involved any confrontations you might come across. There’s a few here in the castle that tend to be a bit snappy with each other..”

“Keep my head down and my mouth shut. Sounds like something I’m used to,” Marco replies with only the slightest touch of bitterness in his voice. Petra, who either doesn’t notice or just doesn’t acknowledge it, just smiles again before resuming her walk, and soon she reaches the end of the hall and disappears around the corner.

Marco steps back into his room, sitting down on his bed and pulling his sole pair of worn boots towards him. He’d never been given permission to just go out and enjoy himself before. Of course he’d never attended something as extravagant as a Prince’s Nameday ceremony either, and judging by Petra’s words and the smiling faces that he’d seen already the whole affair must’ve been enjoyable even for the servants and peasants that attended the parties behind the Castle Gates.

Might as well enjoy this freedom while it lasts, Marco thinks as he gets to his feet and heads out of his room, taking the familiar path he’d taken yesterday until he reaches the courtyard. A few people glance his way but quickly turn their attention back to whatever tasks they were completing, and being given an indifferent glance rather than a hungry stare is a new experience that Marco thinks he can definitely get used to. He quickly ducks out of the way when a man leading a pair of huge black stallions walks by, and Marco weaves through the crowd with the unfamiliar but refreshing sensation of not knowing what to do with his sudden free time.

There was bound to be sort of exciting activity around here that he could do, and though his former lifestyle implied otherwise, he was always up for entertainment where he could keep his clothes on.

~~.~~

“Come on, Ser Erd! Knock his ass into the dirt!”

“Eren, don’t shout,” Armin says quietly before Jean can tell Eren off himself. Any reply that the brunet boy had intended to make is drowned out by the loud cheers that suddenly erupt from the crowded stands full of civilians around them, and even Armin can’t help but grin with anticipation as the two competing knights stride down the jousting strip, lances in hand and bright armor gleaming under the afternoon sun.

“Take his horse, Erd! That’s too good a stallion to be wasted on him!” Eren calls out again, and Jean winces away from the screeching, getting to his feet with a sigh and gesturing at Armin to switch seats with him. Armin raises an eyebrow but otherwise makes no argument as he scoots over to take the seat beside Eren instead; he knows by now that it was always better to have someone between the two of them.

Jean of course would’ve preferred that Eren not be sitting in the King’s Booth with him at all, but he was tolerating his presence if only to pacify Armin. The blond boy seemed to be in good spirits today but there was no telling if he was still angry with Jean over their argument from the night before, or if he was just being civil towards him in honor of it being his Nameday.

Either way, if Armin was willing to act forgiving then Jean was willing to take it. After all, he’d need Armin on his side if Eren decided to act even more obnoxiously than he already was, and the odds of that happening were always high.

Ser Erd nods up at them as he passes by, smiling because he’s all too used to Eren’s loud commentary, and Jean feels a small pang of envy as he watches him lead his horse back to his starting line. Jousting was one of the many things he’d always wanted to try, but of course Levi and Hanji had ruined all that potential fun by consistently reminding Erwin how risky jousting could be. Injuries were a common enough thing, and accidental death wasn’t unheard of. But Levi clearly had no qualms about letting his own subordinates joust, considering that Erd Gin was also a member of his personal squad in addition to one of the more frequent jousters, so Jean was pretty sure by now that the short man just enjoyed pissing on his chances of having fun. Cranky little shit..

“I wish that was me out there in that armor,” Jean remarks quietly, and he smiles a little when the civilians around them all raise their voices to cheer for their favored knights again. Erd and his opponent beam back at the crowd, waving their free hands or accepting tokens from random ladies in the crowd while their horses paw impatiently at the loose soil beneath their hooves.

“Maybe someday it will be, Jean.” Armin replies promptly. Jean scoffs under his breath, but still flashes he blond boy a quick grin, and Armin just smiles back at him and shrugs. “You never know, maybe someday King Erwin will lighten up and actually let you try it.”

“Wished but definitely doubted, Armin,” Jean sighs, “Erwin barely lets me near my own horses unless I’m attending my lessons as it is, and with Mike occupying all my training time with swords, I’m no good with lances and pikes.. I doubt I’d last a single round in a tournament like this, especially against the seasoned knights like Ser Erd or Nanaba.”

“Actually, I think you’d be great in a jousting tournament, Jean,” Eren remarks casually, keeping his eyes on the match in front of him, and both Armin and Jean glance over at him with a look of surprise on their faces.

“Really?” Jean asks warily. Eren’s compliments towards him were rare, and more often than not they were followed by insults. Eren looks back at him with a grin, and by the time Armin notices the gleam in the brunet boy’s eyes it’s too late for him to intervene.

“Yeah, so long as your knight isn’t knocked off you!”

“Eren!” Armin snaps in exasperation, and Jean’s confused expression quickly turns into a glower, his face flushing with anger.

“Piss off, Jaeger!” Jean snarls as Eren starts cackling. He can hear Armin start scolding Eren, but for once that’s no comfort to Jean, and he turns his attention back to the joust in front of him just as both knights charge forward, but the scene is a blur to him now. One of the knights is knocked off of his horse, his opponent’s lance splintering from the impact against the other’s armor, but Jean doesn’t know or care who it is that goes down. Eren is shouting again, Armin’s attempted reprimands clearly being ignored now, and Jean gets to his feet with an angry huff, storming away from the arena and ignoring the fact that Eren and Armin have started calling out after him.

Jean strides through the crowds of his unknown guests mingling around and many of the servants dart out of his way left and right when they see the familiar scowl on their Prince’s face. When Jean notices he tries to soften his expression some; no matter how foul he felt now, the castle staff was still working hard to name his Nameday a memorable one, even if he saw no recognition on the faces of his guests. Then again, that’s why he’d underdressed so much. Erwin and the others didn’t seem to understand it, but he enjoyed being amongst his people much more when they weren’t fawning over him.

But leave it to that ass Eren to completely ruin his good mood. It was a damn shame that his father was one of the most esteemed surgeons in the land, otherwise Jean would’ve found a way to rid himself of Eren’s presence years ago. Maybe he could just accuse Eren of treason against him. He’d be spared from death but at the very least he’d be shipped up to the walls in the north.

Jean smiles at the thought of Eren shivering in a run-down shack, but it falls seconds later when he hears a loud “Oi, watch it, boy!” to his right, and after feeling the rough blow of someone knocking into him Jean suddenly finds himself face-down in the grass with someone squirming on top of him. He yelps in pain when an elbow digs into his shoulder, but the loud “Sorry!” being squawked into his ear doesn’t help ward of the sudden and sharp pain at all.

Jean is sure that this is somehow all Eren’s fault.

~~.~~

Through the window of his room back at the Sister Rose Brothel, Marco had witnessed a variety of celebrations during his years in Trost, but even he had to admit that in spite of any lingering disdain he still held for the upcoming monarch, there wasn’t anything quite like a Prince’s Nameday ceremony.

The wide field on the far outskirts of the castle’s property, which was usually cleared or occasionally occupied by the carts of merchants who travelled in and out of the castle grounds was littered with stalls and carts full of food being pushed around, and many rows of tables set up across the last, most of which were packed with people, all of them laughing and feasting. There were countless entertainers wandering about, performing short little skits or juggling a myriad of unusual objects from shoes to daggers.

Marco had even heard that a jousting arena had even been brought out of retirement for the day, but Marco hadn’t caught any sense of that beyond the occasional muffled cheering, or spotting a random horse being led through the crowds. It was just as well; after being thrown from one as a child, Marco had since then never been a huge fan of horses.

Most of the people around him were probably peasants and servants, judging by their overall shabby clothing and minimal spending, but there was still laughter and smiles abound, and Marco felt his mood steadily lightening as he moved through the crowds. Marco felt no appraising stares and heard no demeaning remarks directed at him. No one demanded that he strip off his clothing or move away from their presence. The closest he’d gotten to an unwelcome touch was a drunken man that had stumbled into him while getting up from a table, and even then Marco had received a sincere albeit slurred apology from the man.

Everywhere he went Marco could hears toasts being made to the fortune and future of the Royals and the Highborns. He smiled at the toasts to Erwin and scoffed at the ones to Jean, and he couldn’t help but notice that the crowds weren’t nearly as boisterous when toasting the Prince, while the cries of support for the King’s reign were nearly deafening. But the roar of a hundred conversations wasn’t quite enough to drown out the wandering musicians either, and the air was filled with the pleasant sound of strumming of lyres and whistling of flutes.

Most of the Highborns were probably in the courtyards, no doubt partaking in the more exquisite delicacies that had been imported to the city and enjoying docile conversations with the other Highborns of Trost, as opposed to attending the more rowdy celebrations that Marco was caught up in, but he still spotted a few familiar faces in the crowds. He’d seen Marlowe and his gray-haired friend earlier that day, though they’d been breaking up a spat between two loud (and very intoxicated) men, so he couldn’t say whether they were on-duty or not. He also could’ve sworn that he saw Petra walking around with some man holding a bloody handkerchief to his mouth, but before Marco could even approach her she was out of his sight and long gone by the time he got to where she’d been standing.

Again, Marco found himself missing the familiar company of those back at the brothel, especially Hitch. She certainly would’ve made her presence known at an affair such as this, but Marco was selfishly grateful as well; her absence meant that he wouldn’t spend the day running around and trying to keep her out of trouble, and he knew from experience that keeping an eye on Hitch was a full-time experience.

Oh well.. He didn’t have his best friend with him anymore, so the most he could do was try to enjoy himself in her honor. If nothing else, he’d certainly have a story to tell if he ever managed to cross paths with her again, and-

“Oi!” someone suddenly shouts near his ear, and Marco jumps when he sees a man stomping his way, a stack of crates balanced in his arms and clearly blocking most of his view. “Watch it, boy!”

Marco quickly staggers back, trying to get out of the man’s path, but yelps when he suddenly knocks into someone walking behind him and the force of the impact sends them both sprawling to the ground. Marco grunts when the man beneath him roughly bucks his back up, no doubt trying to get the weight of freckled boy off of him, and Marco winces internally when he feels his elbow dig into the other man’s side which causes him to let out a sharp, pained yelp.

“Sorry!” Marco gasps as he finally manages to roll off of the cursing man, and he quickly scoots away and gets to his feet, prepared to put some distance between the two of them if he had to. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to..” Marco trails off when the young man he’d fallen onto sits up, and he blinks in surprise. It was the same young man from last night.. the one that had nearly caused him to crack his head open on the wall.

“It’s fine,” the young man snaps, but when their gazes meet his expression suddenly softens, and Marco sees a flash of vague recognition in his eyes, “Uh.. do I know you?” he asks, holding a hand out towards Marco, and the freckled boy quickly takes his hand and hauls the shorter boy up to his feet before brushing the bits of grass off of clothes with an apologetic smile.

“Last night, I think. You bumped into me by the servant’s halls.” Marco replies, hoping that he doesn’t sounds as excited as he feels to have crossed paths with the tawny-eyed boy again. He’s even more handsome in the daytime, when his features aren’t being highlighted by the few flickering torches lining the inner halls. He’s donned in simple enough garb; a dark blue tunic fitted over a loose white shirt and dark trousers. His tunic is belted by thick leather, but the lack of creases on both his belt and his shoes tells Marco that his clothes were new, and Marco even catches a faint whiff of scented soap on him. Was he a Highborn, rather than a member of the City Watch? Marco certainly didn’t know many servants who could dress up and bath just to attend a celebration..

“Ahh, right, I remember now,” the tawny-eyed boy replies, rubbing the back of his neck and giving Marco a small smile that almost makes his freckled face flush. “Well, I knocked you against the wall and you knocked me into the grass, so I guess that makes us even now.”

“I guess it does,” Marco agrees with a quiet chuckle, and he feels an odd sense of accomplishment when the shorter boy’s sharp expression softens more until he’s smiling a little as well. “Though in your defense you caught me before I fell completely, while I just gave you an elbow to the gut. I suppose that leaves me still in your debt.”

“Fair enough,” the tawny-eyed boy concedes with a quiet chuckle of his own. “Are you a newcomer? I try to keep track of every face in the castle, but I can’t recall yours, and I think I’d remember such a distinct one.”

Let it be put on the record that Marco does not blush at that. He’d been involved in more lewd acts with more faceless patrons than he could remember, and nothing as mundane as a little potential flirting could embarrass him at that point, no matter how handsome the speaker was. The sun just made his cheeks feel hotter than usual, and that’s what Marco tells himself before he continues speaking.

“Yes, I’m an.. intended personal servant for someone at the castle,” Marco replies, deciding that skirting around the truth would’ve been best. Sure, they were all friendly smiles and laughter right now, but he couldn’t be sure that the other servants and staff wouldn’t turn up their noses at the mention of his less-than-noble profession. “My name’s Marco.”

“Marco,” the boy repeats quietly, and Marco smiles at how easily it rolls off his tongue. “It’s nice to meet you, Marco. I’m-”

“Jean!”

Marco jumps again at the sudden voice, and the two young men look over to see a skinny blond boy moving their way and huffing from the effort of having to push through the crowds. “Jean, where’d you go?”

Wait.. Jean? As in, Prince Jean?

Marco feels his stomach drop at the mention of his soon-to-be-owner’s name, and he frowns as his eyes scan over the nearby crowds. He didn’t imagine that it would be easy for a Prince of all people to blend in with the crowds, even ones as large as this one, but Marco hadn’t seen a single person out here that looked like they could be royalty. The only thing Marco could suspect was that Prince Jean was dressed as a civilian so he could enjoy these festivities, otherwise his identity would’ve been obvious even to those that had never seen him in person.

“Oi!” another voice suddenly calls out over the crowds, and Marco turns his head to see a brunet boy striding towards them, hands clenched into fists and a scowl on his face. Marco frowns. Was that angry boy talking to him? “Wretched Hells, Jean, you missed the best damn part of the joust!”

“Well there goes the peace,” the tawny-eyed boy suddenly curses, and Marco tenses up as mind suddenly fills with alarm.

His handsome, tawny-eyed boy was Jean. Prince Jean, the arrogant heir to King Erwin, the future monarch of Trost who he had no faith in, and the new owner that Marco didn’t want and had just been blushing over.

Marco also realizes then that he’d just knocked the Prince of Trost into the dirt.

“Oh, fuck me,” Marco mutters under his breath before spinning on his heel and quickly striding away, ducking down behind a crowd of chatting men just as the brunet boy reaches where he’d been standing. Marco pokes his head around a tall man’s arm to watch the two of them, his face burning with embarrassment. Jean’s sour expression is back now, and he doesn’t look like he’d noticed Marco’s sudden absence yet.

“I don’t recall ever having to explain a damn thing to you, Eren,” Jean snaps as the brunet boy – Eren - comes to a stop in front of him. “You didn’t have to fuckin’ come looking for me either.”

“And I didn’t want to,” Eren growls back at him, and Marco can’t help but wince at his surprisingly petulant tone. “The only reason I’m not watching the next round right now is because Armin says I need to apologize to you.”

“Choke on your fuckin’ apology,” Jean snarls, and when Eren’s eyes blaze with anger Marco feels a brief rush of temptation to rush out and jump between them, but the feeling goes as quickly as it comes. He doesn’t owe Jean anything, after all, and judging by now natural the angry snarl looks on his face, the kind smile Jean had given him must’ve simply been the mask he wore when facing his subjects. Nothing had changed.

“Listen here, you arrogant bas-!” Eren starts, but he’s suddenly shoved away from Jean by the blond boy Marco had seen earlier, though the fierce glare he gives Eren isn’t very affective since he’s nearly doubled over and panting for breath. Eren and Jean still scowl at each other again, but they both take a step back, and Marco sees Eren suddenly look a little sheepish when the blond raises his head to glare at him.

“Don’t fuckin’ bother, Armin,” Jean snaps just as he opens his mouth to speak, and he storms away from the pair, heading back up towards the courtyard of the castle. Marco ducks down behind a nearby table as Jean passes by him, and he raises his head only when he hears the Prince’s stomping footsteps fade away.

Wretched Hells.. He’d just made a damn fool of himself in front of the Prince, the same one he didn’t respect and had almost been flirting with, and the anxiety of knowing he’d be presented as a gift to Jean later that night makes his stomach churn even more uncomfortably now.

“It’s his Nameday and he still can’t go an hour without being a prick,” Eren says to Armin, speaking loudly enough for Marco to hear, and though a few people glance his way with startled expressions Marco is mildly surprised to see that not one person speaks out in the Prince’s defense.

“You certainly didn’t help matters at all, Eren,” Armin replies curtly, “Don’t think your sister won’t get wind of this before the night’s up either.” Eren noticeably winces as the pair turns and walks back the way they’d come, and Marco looks away from them to watch Jean’s retreating form in the distance.

Jean suddenly stop mid-step to look at the people mingling around him, as if he were searching for someone, but after a moment his shoulders slump and he keeps walking. Marco briefly wonders if he’d been looking for a familiar face that he didn’t see, but he quickly pushes the thought out of his mind. Tonight was bound to be both an awkward and humiliating affair, so now he was even more determined to enjoy the free time he had left before he officially became Prince Jean’s new whore.

The Gods were definitely mocking him..

  
~~~.~~~

 

 


	4. An Unwanted Gift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their ‘official’ meeting is an awkward experience and peace becomes fragile.

~~~.~~~

The Great Hall is by far the largest room in the castle, being even larger than the King’s Courtyard itself.

The dark stone walls are built high, and nearly ever visible surface not occupied by a window is covered with a tapestry, and each of the huge cloths bears the sigils of the various royal houses or depicts intricately woven portraits of the past monarchs that he been worthy of making history. Tall, arched pillars are dotted along the edges of the wall, barely reaching the height of the ceiling that dozens candle chandeliers hang down from, and even the huge crowds of people currently gathered does nothing to dampen the feeling of being dwarfed by the huge room.

The only space not occupied by the guests standing around is taken by tables covered with countless dishes of food, both familiar and exotic, and tucked in one corners is a musician band from overseas. Their unfamiliar but pleasant music weaves through the chatter and laughter coming from the crowds, and it echoes pleasantly in the wide room. More tables are nestled in the farthest corner, the benches currently stuffed with guests enjoying the feast, and the clacking of goblets and clinking of their cutlery against tin plates can barely be heard over the noise of their conversations.

Jean looks over the crowds and sighs. He was done with attending the festivities. He didn’t want to view the remains of the fireworks display going on about the city. He didn’t want to feast anymore no matter how exquisite the cooks insisted their dishes were. He didn’t want to listen to anymore music even if the instruments being used were new to him, and he didn’t want to deal with anymore of his damned guests.

 _Gods_ , he just wanted the day to be over with so he could go to bed and put this damned day behind him..

He stands at the top of the stairway that leads into the Great Hall, leaning against the banister and watching the crowds below with mild interest. No one seems to notice his presence and though Jean’s grateful for the brief bit of privacy he can’t help but feel a little angered by it as well.

They were all within the castle to celebrate the Nameday of the Prince, and not one guest had even approached said Prince to bid him a happy Nameday or to offer him any well wishes and advice.

“Like I need any of their damn blessings anyway,” Jean mutters under his breath. He had no more interest in any of these guests than they had in him. Of course, unlike these pompous Highborns, Jean didn’t need to know any of their names, and he briefly satisfied himself with the fact that someday they’d be bending the knee to him and not the other way around.

The only person that Jean had had even the slightest interest in that day had been Marco, and that friendly freckled boy had disappeared the moment Jaeger had caught up to him, much to Jean’s displeasure. Thanks for that, Eren. Marco had seemed like he’d be much better company compared to the rest, and Jean is almost tempted to bail on the rest of the party to search for him.

But that would be as ridiculous as it was impertinent. He’d never hear the end of it from Erwin and Levi if he had the balls to bail on his own Nameday celebration. Not that anyone was likely to notice his absence anytime soon-

“I thought I’d find you sulking by yourself.” A familiar voice behind him suddenly pipes up, and Jean returns the sudden remark with a hum of greeting.

Well, maybe a _few_ people would notice..

“Best company I could find right now, Armin.”

“I’m not surprised.. You certainly don’t look like you’re having much fun, Jean.” Armin replies, and Jean huffs, his eyes narrowing before he looks away from the Great Hall to face the blond boy beside him.

“I haven’t been able to enjoy myself since the damn joust ended,” Jean replies, and Armin sighs in a way that tells Jean that he’d actually been expecting such a reply from him.

“I really am sorry about Eren’s remarks,” Armin apologizes, and Jean scowls again. “He’ll be too stubborn to admit it if you ask him, but I did talk to him and he promised me that he would behave for the rest of the night, so-”

“Don’t worry about it right now, Armin.” Jean interrupts as he turns away again. Armin blinks, frowning at the almost defeated tone Jean’s voice had suddenly taken on. “I’m done letting him get under my skin tonight.”

“Jean-”

“I’m serious,” Jean snaps, but his expression softens a little when he looks back at Armin again. “If Eren says he’ll act decent then so will I. I just want to get through the rest of the night without incident.” Armin remains quiet for a long moment but then he smiles, giving Jean’s shoulder a light pat, and Jean can practically feel the approval radiating from him. See that, Eren? He could be the bigger man.

“Mind if I join you, Jean?”

Jean doesn’t respond to the third voice but Armin quickly turns around, blinking and tilting his head back to meet the gaze of King Erwin, who looks down at him and returns his gaping expression with a small smile. The sight of King Erwin, broad-shouldered and tall, with his blond hair swept to one side and the faint scent of mint coming off of him, is still something that Armin is not accustomed to, despite seeing the impressive King nearly every day.

Erwin looks at Jean and then at Armin, giving him a pointed look that would’ve been unreadable to anyone else, but Armin quickly returns the look with a nod of understanding.

“Well, um, if you’ll excuse me, Prince Jean, your Grace, I think I see Sasha attacking a banquet table,” Armin said, dismissing himself with a low bow to both Jean and Erwin before turning on his heel and heading down the stairway, soon disappearing into a throng of people mingling nearby.

Jean blinks at the sudden departure of his friend before sighing under his breath; whenever someone randomly ran off like that, it was usually because Erwin wanted to speak with him alone.

“You don’t look like a man who’s enjoying himself,” Erwin remarks quietly once Armin’s out of sight.

“Armin actually said the same thing.” Jean replies. Erwin gives him a noncommittal grunt and keeps his gaze ahead of him, arms folded behind his back as he and Jean stare down into the crowded Great Hall.

“I can’t help but find your lack of interest a little disappointing, Jean, especially after all the work that the staff put into it.” Erwin finally says. Great, he was starting off with the guilt route. “This whole thing is to celebrate you on your Nameday, after all.”

“Is it?” Jean replies with a touch of bitterness to his voice, and Erwin raises an eyebrow. “That’s almost hard to believe, considering that Armin was the first to approach me since I came in.” Erwin frowns, looking down at the short young man beside him before he sighs and sets a hand on Jean’s shoulder.

“I think it’d be safe to say that you didn’t make the best initial impression on your guests this year,” Erwin tells him, and Jean returns the King’s calm gaze with a sour scowl. “Perhaps if you went down there and tried to make reparations-”

“In other words, you want me to go down there and grovel for the favoritism of every pompous Lord and Lady that could cram themselves into our halls, huh?” Jean snaps, looking away when Erwin’s gaze hardens.

“ _Jean_ ,” Erwin says in a suddenly clipped tone, and Jean quickly bites back another irritated sigh. “Those are your guests down there, and more importantly, your people. Those Lords and Ladies serve the crown, which means that they and their children will someday serve _you_. Before that happens you need to earn their respect and loyalty.”

“If I’m their King, then can’t I just _command_ their loyalty?” Jean asks snidely. “One word from me and I can deem even the pettiest insult to be treason, right?”

“Please try to take this seriously, Jean.” Erwin sighs, and Jean frowns, his tawny gaze dropping to the floor. “There is a fine line between being a King and a Conqueror. If a King does not have the love and support of his people, then his title and power mean nothing.”

“You say like that I’ve never had nothing,” Jean replies shortly, giving Erwin a curt nod before stepping away from him and making his way down the stairwell leading into the Great Hall. He stops about halfway down and sighs heavily, his shoulders slumping as he looks back to face Erwin again. “Still.. I’ll do as you command, my King, but I’m not good with the ‘making reparations’ things, so wish me luck.”

“Gods guard you on your perilous task,” Erwin calls back with a hint of his own sarcasm, and his expression softens when he sees Jean return his retort with a small smile before continuing on down the stairs. Erwin watches silently as Jean disappears into the crowd, greeting a few of the guests as he goes, and the blond man looks away only when he feels the familiar presence of Commander Levi by his side.

“I take it that Keiji has returned?” Erwin asks quietly. Levi nods and gives Erwin a brief glance but quickly returns his gaze back to the party going on below.

“Returned and reported in to Hanji already. He’s resting now, and Ilse will be heading out before the hour is up.”

“Good,” Erwin replies, and a thick silence settles between the two men before Levi finally breaks it with a sigh.

“Hanji says that Keiji brought back news from the south,” the shorter man says, waiting until Erwin’s eyes are on him before he continues. “It seems that those wall-worshiping heretics are starting to stir up trouble again.”

“Are they?” Erwin replies and Levi raises an eyebrow when he hears Erwin’s almost bored tone. “Let me guess something else then – are the Southern Lords concerned that they’ll go beyond preaching on the streets soon?”

“You say that like their concerns aren’t worth taking seriously, Erwin.”

“Those heretics aren’t so deadly that I’m going to march an army down south before daybreak, Levi.”

“Your predecessor underestimated how much of a threat the heretics were during his reign too, Erwin,” Levi reminds the King with a frown. “That mistake sent Pixis to his grave and you to the throne _after_ we fought a damn war.”

“I’m not underestimating or ignoring this, Levi,” Erwin replies, still calm. “You can tell the other members of my Council that there’s going to be a meeting at midday tomorrow, to discuss the actions we’ll take against these rising heretics.”

“As you command,” Levi sighs, turning away from Erwin when he notices Jean mingling with a few of the wealthier Lords down below. “But if I may ask, Erwin, why not hold the meeting tonight? This could easily blow up into more than a few simple street skirmishes.”

“Right now Jean believes that his biggest problem is making amends with the Lords of Trost,” Erwin replies, his gaze softening again as the two of them continue to observe Jean. “Let’s at least let him have one more peaceful Nameday.”

~~.~~

“Ow! Gods, are you going to leave any of my skin on?!” Marco yelps as the brush is dragged over his damp shoulder blades again, and the harsh bristles make it feel more like a bur plant than a bathing brush. The dark-haired woman that’s washing him – who’d introduced herself earlier as Nifa – simply scoffs but noticeably lessens the pressure of the brush as she moves from his shoulder blades down to his mid-back. Marco tries to relax but tenses up again with a hiss of pain when the brush scrapes against a still-healing bruise on his lower back, and Nifa quickly draws her hand back.

“Sorry! This one can be a little rough since.. Well, this is the kind of brush that we use for the horses,” Nifa explains in an apologetic tone, and Marco turns around to gape at her. They were washing him with a brush that they used on _horses_?! He hadn’t been expecting some extravagant rub-down with a silken washcloth imported from Hermina or anything, but he had at least hoped for a little better than a _horse brush_. If he was going to be taking it up from the Prince every night the least he could get was a bath that didn’t leave him feeling sore and raw.

He had Jean to do that for him now, he didn’t need a septa doing it too..

“I’m surprised that no one can hear you complaining down in the Great Hall..” A voice pipes up from the nearby doorway and Marco sighs when he realizes that it’s Marlowe speaking to him again. “The stinging goes away, just bear with it for a few more minutes. You’re a man, not a babe, Marco.”

“I hope I still have a few more minutes.. I think Nifa here is more accustomed to skinning rabbits than washing whores,” Marco replies dryly before flashing Nifa a smile. Nifa chuckles at his words, but Marlowe loudly clears his throat, obviously still uncomfortable with being present for Marco’s bath.

Marlowe, as it turned out, was proving to Marco to be both a helpful friend and a nagging burden. Marco had run into him a few hours ago, just shortly after he narrowly escaped Jean’s presence, and since then Marlowe had taken it upon himself to start cramming potentially useless information into Marco’s head while giving him a tour of the castle wings that weren’t occupied by guests, despite him knowing that Marco had already seen most of the rooms they’d gone to.

He’d also spent those touring hours giving quick lessons to Marco, from which Lord and Ladies he was worthy of speaking with, to which rooms he was and wasn’t permitted to be in (Marco also learns that the northern tower is strictly off-limits to everyone but Prince Jean, King Erwin, and occasionally someone named Armin, and that had only strengthened Marco’s growing curiosity about that particular tower rather than lessening it).

Still, Marlowe’s lessons, though rushed and headache-inducing, weren’t completely lost on Marco. He’d been listening even when it seemed like he was tuning the young guard out, and so he had grown a little more confident that he could learn to live by the rules of the King’s Castle without offending anyone or accidentally committing some sort of treason. He just had to obey Jean’s command like the devout obey the Gods, and he’d been warned by both Petra and Marlowe to avoid a man named Levi, the infamous Commander of the City Watch. Marco had never seen the man in person, but he’d heard enough horror stories to know to stay out of Levi’s path even without the prior warnings.

“The banquet party’s already half over,” Marlowe pipes up again as Nifa rinses the last of the soap from Marco’s hair. Marco can see him leaning against the doorframe now, but the guard’s eyes are fixed straight ahead of him. Marco’s almost tempted to remind Marlowe that he’s been seen naked by plenty of men before, but the poor man still looks so flustered that Marco ignores the urge. “Go ahead and get him dried off, Nifa.”

“Right,” Nifa replies with a nod, and Marco submerges himself in the wooden tub once more to make sure that all the soap is off of him. Nifa smiles at him once he reemerges and hands him a thick cloth to dry himself off with, and Marco makes quick work of the task. Marlowe doesn’t step into the room until Marco has secured the cloth around his waist, and he holds a small pile of clothing out towards Marco.

“Hanji had these made for you today,” Marlowe explains, and he shrugs at the sight of Marco’s confused expression. “I’m guessing that she got your measurements yesterday during your first encounter with her and Petra.. Take this advice, Marco; it’s best not to ask too many questions when it comes to Hanji.”

“Not sure that asking questions about her would even do me any good..” Marco mutters in reply. Marlowe gives him a curt nod before stepping back out into the hallway after Marco takes the clothes from him. Marco takes a quick moment to look the outfit over; It’s nothing fancy, just a tunic, a short-cut pair of braies, and some black trousers. Both the tunic and the trousers are dyed dark shades of red while the braies remained white, and the fabric looks softer than any Marco’s ever seen before.

“You’ll be escorted to Prince Jean’s chambers once you’re dressed, Marco,” Nifa says, gathering up the brushes and soaps into a wooden bucket as Marco pulls the trousers on over the braies, which are surprisingly tight fitting, but luckily the trousers are loose. “It may be some time until he returns from the banquet, but until then just try to relax a little.”

“Believe me, I know how to be patient while waiting on a patron,” Marco replies, tying off the waistband strings of his trousers before slipping the loose-fitting tunic on and smoothing it down. It feels ever nicer than it had looked. “Even if that patron is the man that’s going to rule the kingdom someday..”

“Yes, and Prince Jean will do a fine job of if, I’m sure,” Nifa replies in a tactful tone, and when Marco turns around to face her again he sees her share an quick look with Marlowe, who had stepped back into the room once Marco had finished getting dressed.

“You don’t sound so certain,” Marco remarks hesitantly, watching as Nifa starts to search through a small satchel filled with various glass bottles and metal flasks. Nifa glances up at Marco and holds his gaze for a short moment before she sighs, grabbing two of the flasks and approaching him again.

“It’s not my place to speak ill of our King or his decisions when it comes to his successors,” Nifa says as she pulls the cork from one of the bottles, and Marco’s nose wrinkles at the sudden scent of lavender that wafts through the air. “However..” Nifa continues and she pours some of the thick, lavender-scented water into one palm, setting the bottle down before rubbing her hands together and patting the perfume into the fabric Marco’s tunic. “I have to say that Jean’s had several years to prove himself to the people of Trost, and he’s simply squandering it. He’s not a bad person, of course, he’s just, well..”

“He’s petulant.” Marlowe snaps, his sudden sharp tone nearly making Marco wince in surprise. “Prince Jean isn’t a cruel or foolish man. He could be one of the greatest kings Trost has ever known, if he just focused on his lessons instead of constantly arguing with the surgeon’s son, or rutting around with whichever pretty new handmaidens or stable boys caught his eye. But at this rate, his upcoming reign will be nothing but an insult to King Erwin’s legacy. Like I said, he’s spent these past years as nothing more than a petulant brat that’s been given the Kingdom because of a dead man’s guilt.”

“Marlowe! Learn to watch your words!” Nifa reprimands sharply, rinsing her hand in a nearby bucket of water before picking up the second flask. Marlowe scowls back at her and opens his mouth, as if wanting to retort, but he finally looks away and makes no further remark. Sighing again, Nifa turns away from Marlowe opens the flask, and this time Marco is greeted with the tangy scent of rosemary. Again, she pours the thick liquid into her hand, a lesser amount this time, and pats her hands lightly against Marco’s cheeks and neck. The herbal scents mix and fill Marco’s senses, and though it’s not unpleasant combination it does make his head buzz.

“There, you’re all set now, Marco,” Nifa tells him with a smile, reaching up to smooth Marco’s damp bangs back into their usual position. “Marlowe, would you escort him to the Prince’s chambers now?”

“With pleasure,” Marlowe sighs, straightening up and beckoning for Marco to follow after him. Marco returns it with a nod and gives Nifa another grateful smile before hurrying after Marlowe. As they walk Marco brushes a hand over the front of his tunic to try to get another feel for the soft fabric, though he’s sure that he won’t be wearing it for much longer. The journey is silent, and Marco does his best to keep up as they weave through a myriad of hallways and long corridors, until the decorations lining the walls slowly become more extravagant, and Marco continuously has to resist the urge to pause and admire a statue or painting that they pass. Marlowe simply gives everything a familiar and indifferent glance.

Finally, the two of them step out of a short corridor and into a much wide hallway, lined with thick sandstone pillars, and at the far end of the hallway is a large wooden door, decorated with iron braces that had been painted gold. Two guards stand by the door, long spears in their hands and swords laced onto their belts, and Marco realizes that they've arrived.

They’ve reached Prince Jean’s room.

“Are you ready for tonight then?” Marlowe asks after giving one of the guards a quick report as to why they were entering the Prince’s chambers. Marco takes a moment to admire the view of the hall once more before he turns his attention back to the young guard escorting him (and looking at him with a mixture of pity and something close to judgment) and he nods.

“I suppose I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

~~.~~

If Jean had to smile for much longer he was sure that his cheeks were going to start bleeding.

At Erwin’s insistence Jean had circled through the huge room multiple times, greeting as many of his guests as he could and thanking them for taking their time to attend his Nameday ceremony (as if any Highborn would turn down a royal invitation). He shook every thick hand a Lord thrust into his face, kissed the jewelry-laden wrist of every Lady he’d come across, and laughed at so many unfunny jokes and remarks – most of which were at his expense - that he probably wouldn’t mind never laughing again.

Now, thank the Gods, the night was growing late and his guests were finally growing as tired of the whole affair as Jean was. The room had emptied out considerably, with Jean having to dart to and fro to bid nearly each guest a personal farewell, but there were still several dozen still lingering about.

Most of the remaining quests were now sitting at the banquet tables, downing the last of the wine and whatever food Sasha hadn’t gotten to first, and a few of the more entitled Lords were crowded around the King’s table, laughing and chatting with Erwin and a few of his closest companions. Jean had almost chuckled at the sight of Levi slumping in his seat with a dull look in his eyes, but he’d had a long enough day already and getting on the Commander’s bad side wouldn’t be a good way to end it.

“You look exhausted, Jean,” Armin remarks as he strides over to stand beside Jean, holding a half-filled goblet in one hand and offering Jean a full one with the other, and Jean lets out a tired sigh as he accepts the cup.

“I feel it too,” Jean replies as he raises the goblet to his lips, and he’s grateful for the tangy taste of cider instead of the sour wine he’d been drinking all night. He didn’t give a damn what those Lord had said, Karanese wine still tasted like piss to him. “I’m ready for this night to end, Armin..”

“It almost has, Jean,” Armin replies encouragingly, nose wrinkling briefly when he sips from his own cup. “But you got through the night with no bloody noses, broken wrists, or formal letters of apology needing to be written, unlike your last Nameday..”

“Mylius was being a cunt to my other guests all day - he had that broken nose coming,” Jean huffs back at him, and Armin almost smiles at the memory, thought it certainly hadn’t been a laughing matter when it happened. He also doesn’t bother reminding Jean that the ‘other guests’ that Mylius had been so rude to had just been himself and Sasha. Jean tended to remember things as he _wanted_ to remember them.

“Well, I’m just glad that this year’s ending on a peaceful note,” Armin says, and Jean nods in agreement as his gaze wanders over the remaining guests, whose numbers are dwindling down with each passing minute. Even some of the guards have been relieved from their posts to retire for the night, and Jean spots Connie and Sasha slumped across one of the far tables, both of them surrounded by piles of dirty plates, and their synchronized snoring is just barely audible from where Jean and Armin are standing.

Finally, things were beginning to calm down..

“Ah, there you are, Prince Jean!”

..and then just like that the peace was gone.

“Oh Gods, no..” Jean mutters to himself, cringing when he hears the familiar sound of Hanji’s approaching footsteps, and seconds later the brunette woman pops up beside him, clapping him on the back so hard it nearly makes him stumble forward into Armin, who takes a hasty step back to avoid the collision. Jean sighs, rubbing his shoulder with a scowl as he straightens up and turns to face the eccentric scholar.

“What is it, Hanji?”

“It’s time for me to present your gift to you, of course,” Hanji replies as she wraps a companionable arm around his shoulders. “Levi was supposed to join me but as you can see he’s enjoying the company of Lord Reeves right now.” Jean frowns and glances back towards Levi, who is in fact staring blankly at a loud-talking chubby man and looking like he’d rather throw himself off the Northern Tower than be where he is right now.

Oh well. Better Levi than him.

“Always so nice to see him making new friends. So, shall we get going then, Jean?” Hanji’s grin is becoming more unnerving by the second. Jean frowns, looking towards Armin for help, but Armin just smiles and returns his pleading look with a sheepish shrug.

“I’m afraid Hanji’s rank is far greater than my own,” Armin sighs as he takes Jean’s half-filled goblet from him and Hanji cackles as she starts to tug Jean away from the remaining crowd and back towards the stairway entrance.

“Have fun, and count yourself lucky, your Highness!” Eren calls out to them as they pass by, and Jean raises an eyebrow when he sees the brunet boy watching him with a wolfish grin. “We almost suggested having a consummation viewing!”

“Jaeger, what are you-?” Jean starts to ask, but he nearly stumbles again when Hanji gives his arm a firm tug forward, and as he’s led back up the stairway he can hear Eren still laughing behind him.

“Ignore Eren; he just wants to spoils the surprise.” Hanji chirps as they make their way down the central corridor. Jean scowls when he sees a few of the guards watching the pair curiously and tugs his wrist out of Hanji’s surprisingly firm grim, making the brunette pause to look back at him.

“Hanji, where are you even taking me?” Jean asks, eyes narrowing, “And why do you look like you did something behind the King’s back? Again?”

“You’ll see when he get there, and we didn’t go behind his back,” Hanji replies with a wave of her hand. “We just didn’t  run the idea past him first before the purchase. He was having a busy day preparing for everything, after all, and besides, he would’ve never said yes.”

“Said yes to wha-?” Jean starts but he’s cut off once more when Hanji grabs his wrist again and resumes dragging him forward, and within moments Jean realizes that she’s making a beeline to _his_ room.

Well, that was somewhat reassuring. If Hanji had managed to get his “gift” into the castle and past his door guards then it probably wasn’t something that could kill him.

“Just remember, Jean,” Hanji says, shooing the guards out of the way as the come to a stop in front of the door. “This is a gift from Levi and me but you still have your lessons tomorrow, so try not to stay up _too_ late. The men aren’t as lenient with the lessons as I am.” Again, Jean opens his mouth to question Hanji but the brunette woman pays no attention and instead spends the next few moments smoothing his clothes and hair down (and having much more success with the clothes), and Jean sighs.

“I feel like I should be running away from you.”

“Hush up, and in you go!” Hanji beams before pushing the door open and stepping into the Prince’s bedroom, and Jean is dragged in close behind her. The room is dark, with only a few candles on his bedside tables lit, and he looks over the familiar room with vague interest before he realizes that there’s someone standing in front of the vanity table to the left of his bed.

It’s a young man, standing with his back towards the two of them, washing his face with the bowl of water sitting on the table, and he perks up when he hears the sound of the door open. Jean hears him sigh before turning around the face the pair, and as he steps into the light Jean is suddenly greeted with the sight of a familiar freckled face.

“Wait, is that.. Marco?” Jean demands, mouth dropping open, and Hanji looks back and forth between the two boys (and taking note that both boys are faintly blushing) before shrugging and pushing Jean further into the room with an encouraging smile. Jean scowl as he turns his head to look back at her. “You got me.. Wait, you two tried to get me a.. a  _person_ as a gift?!”

“You can just say ‘whore’. We’re not as sensitive to the title as you might think,” Marco mutters under his breath, turning Jean’s attention back to him, and Hanji hums to herself.

“I see you two have met before.. Interesting. Well, enjoy the rest of your Nameday, your Highness. See you at your lessons tomorrow, bright and early!” Hanji calls out and darts out of the room before Jean can speak, and the door slams shut with a resounding echo behind her.

“Wretched Hells, that woman’s mad..” Jean growls under his breath, turning around to face Marco again and blinking when he sees only an empty room. Jean frowns and opens his mouth to call out for him but lets out a startled squeak instead when he suddenly feels a hand against his crotch and he looks down to see Marco now kneeling in front of him and reaching for the clasp of his belt. “W-Wait, what are you doing?!” Jean demands, jerking himself away from Marco’s grip and grunting when his back hits the door behind him. Marco blinks before frowning up at him, looking uncertain as he gets to his feet.

“What do you mean, your Highness? As Hanji might have told you, I belong to you now,” Marco replies him with the best smile he can muster as he reaches for Jean’s belt again, and Jean pressed himself further back into the door. “If you wish to start off with something different then just say so. You do own me now after all-”

“Stop saying that! The only living things I _own_ are my horse and the hunting hounds.” Jean replies, gripping Marco’s wrists lightly and pushing them away from his belt. “I don’t own any of my citizens, not even the castle staff, and especially not someone bought as a ‘gift’ for me..”

Marco’s smile drops as he starts to pull his wrists from Jean’s grasp, and he’s not really surprised when Jean’s grip easily loosens.

..Jean didn’t want him. The Prince that he’d been bought for _didn’t want him_.

Marco swallows and feels a sudden and familiar pang of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. If the Prince didn’t want him then he’d be sent back, and a ‘return’ such as that would be a huge insult towards his former Madame and the reputation of her establishment. She would not take such a slight lightly. If Marco had no place here at the King’s Castle, then Gods, he’d definitely have no place back at the Sister Rose brothel.

“I.. I have to admit that I’m at a loss..” Marco admits after a heavy silence had settled between the two of them. “I was bought as someone for you to fuck whenever you wish, and now I learn that you don’t even want to use me. I’ve never known a man to stop me when I’m pulling their belts off.”

“When I share my bed with someone it’s because they agreed to it, not because they were told to,” Jean replies with a frown, surprisingly unfazed by Marco’s bold words, and this time Marco frowns.

“Oh, well aren’t you a man of honor,” Marco says with a roll of his eyes that makes Jean scowl, “But there’s no need for honor in my presence, your Highness – I’ve already been paid for after all so just give the order and you can forget about your honor for one night.”

“Clearly there’s just been some sort of misunderstanding here,” Jean growls, his patience running out. “I’m sorry for disappointing you, but what, did you expect me to just waltz in here and start fucking you or something?”

“That’s typically what happens, so yes, I did.”

“We’re not at some brothel, Marco-”

“Brothel, castle, makes no difference. A whore is a whore no matter where we go, and I’m still a whore that belongs to _you_.”

“I don’t want you!” Jean half-shouts and Marco flinches away, his eyes widening in surprise. Jean holds his gaze for a long moment before huffing and brushing a hand through his hair, and Marco finally scowls as well. Fine then. If Jean didn’t want to play then there was no use in him keeping up the sweet boy act.

“I see then.. Well, you not wanting me is nothing too serious, I’ll just be sent back to the brothel and then probably tossed out onto the streets by my Madame. She runs by a strict ‘no profit, no stay’ rule and who needs a whore that a Prince wouldn’t fuck.” Marco growls, not bothering this time to keep his irritation out of his voice, and Jean sighs again. “But that’s how life down there is. Everyone’s used to it, so what dissension is one more unwanted whore on the streets going to sow-”

“I’m not sending you away!” Jean suddenly snaps, startling Marco into silence again, and Jean sighs, his expression starting softening again. “I’m just.. I don’t own you and I’m not going to bed you if you don’t want it.”

“Who says I don’t want it?” Marco retorts with a hint of a challenge in his tone. “You’ve apparently got a reputation for going after handmaidens and stable boys, so there must be something _special_ about you that brings them to their knees and then keeps them there.” Jean narrows his eyes and Marco waits, wondering if he’d just gone further than he should have, but then Jean just sighs again and nods towards his rather spacious bed.

“Lay down, Marco,” Jean grunts, gripping the bed post as he steps out of his boots, and Marco gives him a triumphant smirk as he reaches down to remove his tunic, but the smirk falls from his face when Jean shakes his head. “Keep your clothes on.”

“You like it with the clothes on then?” Marco asks with a shrug as he climbs into the bed, almost sighing when he feels the soft material sinking comfortably under his weight. “Lucky you, that’s nothing I’m unfamiliar with. Do you want me to start with my hands or my mouth?”

“What I _want_ , Marco, is for both of us to go to sleep,” Jean grumbles as he takes his belt and tunic off as well, leaving him in his trousers and a loose-fitting undershirt. The freckled boy is now staring at him with a disbelieving frown, and Jean tries not to roll his eyes. “Look, I don’t care what you were bought for, Marco. You’re not my property. I’m not sending you back but I’m not going to jump on you like some horny hound either. For now you’ll just.. be a companion of sorts, okay? Like a squire.”

“I.. Uh, Okay..” Marco agrees quietly, his brow furrowing. This wasn’t anywhere near what Marco thought would be in store for him, and Jean proved for a second time that he definitely wasn’t anything like Marco had expected him to be, and Marco wouldn’t pretend that he wasn’t a little relieved with the surprising turn that night had taken.

“Good,” Jean grunts back as he climbs into the bed as well, leaving a wide gap between himself and Marco. Marco watches Jean, still wary, as the Prince rolls over onto his side and blow to in candle on the table before he settles down against his pillow, his back facing Marco, and the freckled boy waits for several long minutes to pass before he lets himself relax into the bed as well.

He wouldn’t have thought so yesterday, but now Marco was pretty certain that Jean was going to be a man of his word. He could actually sleep peacefully with another man in the same bed without wondering if he’d be woken up by being flipped onto his back or having his face shoved into another man’s lap.

“So..” Marco finally whispers as he snuggles down further into the softness of the feather mattress. “You said earlier that my face was distinct, didn’t you?”

“Go to sleep or I’ll put you out into the hall.”

“That’s very flattering,” Marco continues, glancing over at Jean with a lopsided smile that he can’t see. Jean just frowns and buries his face into his pillow. “After all, most compliments I get aren’t about my face.”

“Don’t like halls? We have some empty stables out back.”

“Perhaps you’ll give in to temptation some day and find out. If you liked the freckles on my face then you’ll certainly like the ones-”

“My eyes are shut which means talking right now is treason. Go to sleep.”

“Oh, your divine word is my most treasured law, your Highness.” Marco chuckles quietly, grunting when Jean suddenly elbows him in the side. “You wound me, my Prince.”

“Shut up, Marco.”

Marco stifles another chuckle and rolls onto his side to face away from Jean, sighing softly as he relaxes into the bed and enjoys the second night in years with no wandering hands on his body.

“So,” Jean suddenly mutters after a while, sounding half-asleep himself, and Marco sleepily blinks his eyes open. “Intended personal servant, huh?”

“Shut up, your Highness.”

For the first time since he can remember, Marco falls asleep completely at peace.

~~~.~~~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, finally got through their ‘official’ meeting and now the story can really kick off~
> 
> Coming Up: Marco sees firsthand how the Prince of Trost spends his days, and Armin offers some insight to Jean’s infamous reputation.


	5. A New Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marco sees firsthand how the Prince of Trost spends his days, and Armin offers some insight to Jean’s infamous reputation.

~~~.~~~

The first thing that Marco is aware of when he wakes up is the gentle pressure of the most comfortable pillow he’s ever slept on pressing into the side of his face.

The second thing that he’s aware of is the sound of a door opening somewhere behind him, and the familiar noise makes the freckled boy sigh under his breath.

 _‘Time to get to work..’_ Marco thinks groggily as he sits up, mourning the loss of the very comfortable pillow he leaves behind. He runs a hand through his tousled bed hair before stripping himself of his tunic and reaches for the flimsy ties of his trousers. _‘Just hope this one’s quicker than that las-’_

“What the hell are you doing?! Put your damn clothes back on!”

_‘-..Oh yeah..’_

Marco blinks as he glances over towards the half-open bedroom door where Jean is now standing. Even with the distance between them Marco can see a tinge of red on the Prince’s cheeks, and he can’t help but smirk a little at the sight. Blushing men was a familiar sight, but something about it being Jean made it a little more appealing than usual. Perhaps it was just the novelty of making a _Prince_ blush, but it was a thought that Marco doesn’t dwell on.

“Please tell me that you taking your clothes off isn’t going to be a consistent thing..” Jean mutters as he steps into the room and kicks the door shut behind him. He glances over at Marco and, upon seeing that the freckled boy is still shirtless, frowns. “Also, didn’t I tell you to put your damn shirt back on?”

“Force of habit,” Marco replies with an indifferent shrug, not bothering to reach for this tunic at all. He sits up as Jean strides towards a large wardrobe across the room, and Marco watches as Jean slips his own tunic off before pulling a black-colored top made from what looked like very thick fabric out of the wardrobe. Marco frowns; he’d seen some guards in the city occasionally wearing those before but never while off-duty and visiting the brothel. “Do you always wear padded armor in your own home?”

“The King’s idea,” Jean grunts in reply, his brow furrowing as he tugs the padded vest on and tucks the bottom in under the edges of his belt with a huff of discomfort. “It won’t do much against a sword up close, but it’ll at least stop arrows and some daggers from doing fatal damage. Everyone of significance in the castle wears one.”

“Ahh, explains why I don’t have one,” Marco mutters under his breath but quickly realizes that he hadn’t spoken quietly enough. He grimaces as Jean frowns and glances back at him, and if Marco didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that Jean suddenly looked a little _guilty_.

“Marco, it’s not like I can’t get you-” Jean starts, but he trails off when they hear several heavy and quick knocks against the door. Jean lets out an exasperated groan, making Marco raise an eyebrow, and he tugs his tunic back on over the vest and smoothes the fabric down. “Come in, Marlowe.”

Sure enough, Marlowe is the man that strides in, and Marco, for the first time in a long while, is suddenly conscious of his own shirtlessness. But Marlowe only gives him an impassive glance before he faces Jean and bows his head respectfully and folds his arms behind his back.

“Commander Levi wished to inform you that your sword training has been postponed to midday, as Mike and the other members of the King’s Council have been summoned to a meeting that’s extended beyond its expectancy.”

“A meeting?” Jean repeats quietly, eyes narrowing as his face falls into its usual scowl. “I guess my invitation was misplaced.”

“Apparently it’s a very restricted meeting,” Marlowe replies tactfully. “As far as I know, even Moblit and Ser Gunther were excluded from attendance.” That answer seems to satisfy Jean, and Marlowe visibly relaxes when Jean’s scowl fades.

“Fine then,” Jean says as he ties off the end of his belt and turns around to face the freckled boy still perched on his bed. Marco perks up immediately. “Since you’ve probably got nothing better to do today, you can come along with me while I attend my lessons, Marco.”

“That’ll be a good experience for you,” Marlowe hums in agreement and Marco feels a flicker of betrayal. “I imagine that you’ll be spending much more time with Jean, so you’ll need a firsthand look at how our Prince spends his day.”

“Oh, lucky me,” Marco scoffs as he slides off of the bed and onto his feet, “Perhaps while Jean’s chasing a few poor chambermaids around I can stand to the side and trip them.”

The sudden scowl on Jean’s face is worth the scolding that Marlowe gives him on their way to the library.

Having to sit in a library with said Prince, however, is not.

Marco is so bored by the second hour that he half-wishes he was back at the brothel. At least there he had something to do to pass the time, and still had Hitch’s company even when he didn’t. Wretched Hells, at this point Marco wouldn’t have even minded Marlowe coming back to lecture him again.

But the young guard had left to resume whatever daily tasks he got up to, and Jean, meanwhile, hadn’t looked up from the thick book in front of him since they’d arrived. Marco lets out another loud sigh, and Jean grits his teeth as he looks up from his book and faces him.

“..Would you like a book or something, Marco?” Jean finally says with what sounds like forced politeness as he finally closes his book. Marco perks up hopefully, but he deflates when Jean just pushes that book to the side and pulls another one over in its place. “Most of the books in here are about past wars and noble families, but even reading that shit has to be better than just sitting there.”

“A book wouldn’t do me much good,” Marco replies with a shrug. He casts a wistful look towards the open window, appreciating the gentle breeze that blows in, and Marco thinks he hears Jean actually start to growl behind him.

“It would at least keep you from huffing at me every few-”

“I can’t read, Jean,” Marco sighs, and Jean promptly falls silent. Marco had never before been ashamed of his illiteracy; such things were unnecessary in his former line of work, after all. But now, with Jean’s eyes on him, he can feel his face starting to flush from the unfamiliar embarrassment.

“Neither of my parents could read,” Marco continues, not knowing why he suddenly feels the need to explain himself either. “No one else back at the brothel could read either, and our Madame was the one who ever negotiated contracts, so she never saw a reason for us to learn.” A thick silence settles between them and Marco turns away from Jean, trying to think up a reason to excuse himself, but he freezes when Jean reaches out to touch his shoulder. It just a light touch, but it’s the first contact that Jean has purposely initiated since the night before and Marco feels himself unexpectedly relaxing under the warmth of Jean’s palm.

“I can teach you,” Jean says with a gentle smile, and Marco stares at him blankly, stunned into silence. Jean just stares back at him, and he shrugs one shoulder when he sees the bewilderment on Marco’s face. “I only learned myself shortly after moving into the castle, but I’m pretty sure that I understand it well enough now to teach someone else.” When he gets no reply Jean trails off, suddenly looking uncertain about the offer, and Marco breaks himself out of his stupor before the growing silence becomes more awkward than it already is.

“You’d be willing to do that?” Marco asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Jean nods back at him, a small smile returning to his face, but it falters again when Marco lets out a quiet scoff. “Never thought I’d see the day where the Prince offered to give reading lessons to a whor-”

“ _Companion_ ,” Jean interrupts sharply, and Marco draws back a little at the sudden irritation lacing Jean’s tone. “But I’m not offering the lessons to you as a Prince, Marco; I’m offering it to you as a friend.”

“You consider us friends?” Marco asks with more genuine surprise, raising an eyebrow, and he can’t stop himself from smiling a little when Jean glares at him and lets out another irritated growl.

“Look, do you want the damn lessons or not?” Jean asks grumpily, again looking like he almost regretted the sudden offer. Marco considers it for another moment before shrugging in agreement, but the small smile he gives Jean noticeable placates the Prince’s sudden temper.

“I think it’s worth a shot,” Marco replies honestly. “It certainly would beat sitting here for hours on end with nothing to do.”

“Good,” Jean replies with a curt nod, his smile falling again when he seems to remember that he’s in the middle of his studies, and with a heavy sigh that matched Marco’s earlier ones, Jean turns his attention back to the book in front of him.

“So what are you reading about anyway?” Marco asks at length. He briefly wonders if the new interruption would just annoy Jean further, but Jean looks up from his book immediately, seeming to relish the returning distractions.

“Chronicles about the walls up north and what lies beyond them.” Jean replies, and Marco hums with interest. He’d heard a few stories about the northern walls in the course of his lifetime, mostly the rambling of drunken men, but he definitely didn’t know enough to fill a book as thick as the one Jean was reading. “They’re something I’d like to see someday, but only from a distance. These stories sound more like something you’d tell children to spook them into behaving, rather than something you’d write down in a history book.”

“Like what?” Marco asks with genuine curiosity. He leans over to look at the yellowed pages of the book that Jean is gesturing too, but draws back in disappointment when he sees no pictures, only rows of scribbles and symbols that make no sense to him.

“Well, at first this chapter just mentions the heretics, but apparently the closer you get to the wall, the madder they became. The go from simply respecting the walls to practically worshiping them and treating the damn things like deities, even going so far as to ‘sacrifice’ for them.” Jean replies, snorting as he turns the page. “But then, a few survivors that went over the wall and somehow managed to come back were all rambling on about the far northern lands being full of man-eating giants.” The thought sends a chill down Marco’s spine, but Jean looks more amused with it than anything else.

“That’s a ridiculous thought,” Marco says instead, forcing the chill away, and Jean nods his head in agreement. “Even if there were giants beyond those walls, our ancestors would’ve wiped them out hundreds of years ago, just like they did with the mammoths and the dire wolves.”

“It’s probably just the ramblings of men with frostbitten brains,” Jean snorts, flipping through the pages until he comes to the start of a new chapter, and Marco leans over again to admire the pictures drawn onto the page. “Nothing I need to be learning either. I’m not going out towards those walls anytime soon, and I’m certainly not going to go looking for man-eating giants if I do.”

“Well, history can be pretty boring. It’s probably just something the writers tossed in to make the read a little more bearable,” Marco mutters hopefully. “Let me know if you get to a chapter about _humans_ turning into man-eating giants.”

“That’s too ridiculous even for this damn book,” Jean scoffs, and Marco can’t help but chuckle as well, but with the distracting conversation now over Jean grudgingly returns his attention back to the book. Marco, now bored again as well, leans back in his seat so that the breeze from outside is hitting him once more, but he doesn’t take his eyes off of Jean.

Jean, of course, is currently oblivious to Marco’s staring and keeps his tawny eyes on the strange-looking words that he’s reading, but as Marco watches him he can’t help but realize how severely he’d misjudged his Prince.

Marco dwells on that thought for the next few hours until Jean finally finishes his reading, only to dismiss Marco shortly afterwards. His next lessons were with the King himself and some man named Mike, who Jean mentioned was a senior member of the King’s Council, but Marco didn’t stick around to hear any details after that. The long hours they’d just spent in that library were agony enough. Marco wanted to stretch his legs before having to endure another one of Jean’s lessons, and he was more than grateful that Jean had picked up on that fact and sent him off to “familiarize himself with the castle”.

This task, unfortunately, was not going well.  
  
He’d blown off Jean’s words at first, since the majority of his tours with Marlowe were still fresh in his head, but now, as he strides down what felt like the twelfth hallway, Marco is beginning to realize why he and the others had all been putting so much emphasis on memorizing the castle grounds.

Marco was completely and utterly lost.

Wretched Hells, he didn’t understand how anyone around here knew where they were going. Every hallway he’d gone down looked identical to the last, and none of the doors he passed had any specials markers or labels on them. There no were specially paved pathways, no distinguishing landmarks or decorations, not even a crudely painted sign to say “go this way, you freckled idiot”.

Marco sighs, accepting that fact that he really doesn’t know where the hell he’s going, and he takes two steps around a corner before skidding to a stop when he suddenly sees a man standing in front of him, and it’s not just any random man.

As luck would have it, Marco had very nearly charged head-first into Levi, the Commander of the City Watch, and one of the people that Marco had specifically been told to avoid.

He briefly wonders which of the Gods had it out for him.

“Oi, brat, who the fuck are you?” Levi growls at him. Marco’s words catch in his throat at the (somewhat) unexpected harsh tone and a quiet squeak is the only thing that comes out of Marco’s mouth. Levi narrows his eyes, and now he looks even more irritated than he had a few seconds ago. “Answer my damn question, you shitty brat. Are you supposed to be in the kitchen? Because if so, your freckled ass wandered way-”

“Commander Levi?” another voice suddenly cuts in, somehow sounding both softer and harsher than Levi’s had, and Marco glances over as another person steps into view. He’s a little surprised to see that it’s a young woman, looking even younger than Petra, with black hair and dark eyes that glitter in the torchlight. She’s wearing the same uniform as the rest of the City Watch members that Marco had seen, with the addition of a worn red scarf draped around her neck. Levi turns his head to look at her, his expression briefly softening, but it sharpens again when he looks away from the girl and back to Marco, who visibly tenses again.

“Mikasa, you know who the hell this boy is? Apparently he just swallowed his fucking tongue.” Levi snaps after seeming to decide that Marco isn’t worth speaking to personally, and Marco is only mildly offended by that realization. The girl – Mikasa – looks his way and Marco sees a faint glitter of recognition flash in her dark eyes.

“He’s the one that you and Hanji had purchased as a gift to the Prince,” Mikasa replies promptly. Levi raises an eyebrow and his irritated expression suddenly fades into understanding. “I saw Marlowe escorting him around the grounds yesterday, and I believe that Petra said that his name was Marco.”

“Oh, so _this_ is Marco, huh?” Levi mutters, looking said boy over with an unimpressed hum. Marco can practically feel himself sweating under the infamous Commander’s gaze and though Levi’s face looks impassive once more he knows better than to let his guard down. “Well, Marco, I’m glad you’re here.”

“Really?” Marco asks before he can stop himself, and for a brief second Levi almost looks like he’s going to smile. That was a creepy thought and Marco is glad that he doesn’t.

“Of course I am. Now that Jean has you to fuck instead then maybe he’ll stop panting after my protégé like some horny hound growing into his balls.” Marco draws back, feeling something chilly and unfamiliar suddenly settling in his gut, but Mikasa just sighs, looking more bored than scandalized by Levi’s harsh words.

“In our Prince’s defense, Jean stopped pursing me years ago at my own personal insistence, Commander Levi,” Mikasa says, raising a hand to fiddle with her scarf. Marco can feel her eyes on him again but he looks away to stare at the wall behind her, suddenly unwilling to meet her gaze. He does feel a small flicker of unexpected relief as Mikasa dismisses Jean’s past pursuits, but it immediately sours again when Levi just scoffs.

“Jean doesn’t make a habit of letting people go easily.. I recall him pining for that damn stable boy he’d been fucking for _months_ after he left. Sammy, or whatever that shit’s name was.” Levi grouses. Marco swallows thickly and shoots Mikasa another brief glance, half-hoping that she’ll dismiss those words as well, but he’s startled to see her giving Levi a warning glare instead. Levi seems to notice it as well and lets out a heavy sigh before waving a hand at Mikasa.

“Let’s go then, Mikasa. We’ve still got half a castle to patrol before we head out into the city. As for you, Marco-” Levi’s gaze returns to Marco and he tenses up again, “-double back the way you came. Staff isn’t allowed in this wing unless summoned.” Marco starts to nod, but Levi is already striding away, and Marco takes a few steps back himself. Mikasa remains still for a moment, fixing Marco with an unreadable stare, but then she turns and follows after Levi without another word. Marco steps back around the corner, but lingers when he hears the retreating voices echoing in the hall.

“You don’t have to spook every new face around here, Commander Levi. Marco must still be getting used to life here in the castle – he’ll need time to adjust accordingly.” Mikasa remarks and Marco frowns when he just hears Levi scoff again.

“He can adjust at his own damn pace, but that’s not going to happen if he doesn’t know the damn rules,” Levi replies curtly, and Marco faintly hears Mikasa sigh again. “Don’t give me that look, brat. That’s how I taught everyone around here, you included, remember? Hells, that’s how I was taught by Mike and Nile when I came here. It’s the harsh lessons that stick.”

“I only ask that you be less harsh in the future, Commander Levi, at least until he’s found his feet.” Mikasa replies in an exasperated tone, and Marco relaxes a little when he hears their footsteps starting to grow fainter. “You know how difficult it can be to adjust to a castle after living in the slums of the city..”

So Levi was from the outer city as well, Marco realizes with a hum of interest as the pair of footsteps finally fade into silence, and Marco is surrounded only by the low hum of the halls and the crackling of torches once more.

“..Well, I’m still lost.” Marco snaps under his breath, if only to break the thickening silence around him. If Levi had to dismiss him so crudely, he or Mikasa could have at least had the decency to point him in the right direction before they left. Now he was back to where he started, and if a guard less understanding than those two found him-

“Marco!” A voice behind him suddenly calls out, and Marco bites down a startled yelp as he turns around to face the speaker, and he exhales with relief when he sees that it’s Marlowe striding towards him. Like Levi, he’s got someone Marco doesn’t know by his side, but Marco quickly recognizes him as the silver-haired boy that he’d often seen wandering around with Marlowe, who was now staring down at him with a curious frown. “What are you doing back here? If someone summoned you then carry on, but non-ranking staff are not usually allowed.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Jean actually dismissed me earlier to explore on my own, and I kind of lost my way.” Marco confesses sheepishly. Marlowe raises an eyebrow, not looking surprised at all, but the silver-haired boy beside him lets out a heavy sigh, as if stopping to talk to Marco were the biggest inconvenience in the world.

“I see.. It’s not unusual for someone to lose their way when wandering alone for the first time. It even happens to the newer members of the King’s Guard like Boris here.” Marlowe replies before shooting the silver-haired boy – Boris - a pointed look. Boris just yawns, shooting him an indifferent stare in return, and Marlowe turns his gaze back towards Marco. “Prince Jean’s likely to be sparring down in the courtyard by now. I can take you there now, if you’d like.”

“Great, another detour to delay the end of my shift.” Boris mutters, and Marco chuckles under his breath as the two guards turn and lead him through the maze of identical halls.

~~.~~

Speaking honestly, Marco had tensed up a little when he noticed that Eren boy already standing in the courtyard; his first impression of Eren had comprised of a vicious glare and some surprisingly petulant words about the Prince. But Jean seems calm as he steps into the courtyard to join him, and Marco blinks in surprise when Eren walks over to meet him halfway and Jean gives him a civil nod of greeting that Eren returns.

“They know better that to openly argue when the King’s Council members are patrolling the grounds,” someone behind Marco pipes up and the freckled boy jumps a little before he spins around to face the speaker and wonders how everyone in the castle seemed to move around so silently.

The speaker is a blonde boy, nearly a head shorter than Marco is, but Marco instantly recognizes him as the other boy that he’d seen with Jean and Eren the day before. He’d heard Jean mention his name then, but now nothing comes to mind and a tenses silence starts to stretch.

“I’m Armin Arlert, grandson of the King’s Treasurer” the blond boy introduces just as the awkwardness starts to settle. Marco visibly relaxes and offers Armin a smile as he reaches out and clasps his hand to give it a firm shake. Armin returns the gesture with noticeably less strength before he turns away and heads towards a staircase that leads to a balcony overlooking the courtyard.

“My name’s Marco.” the freckled boy tells Armin as they ascend the stairway, and Armin briefly glances back to acknowledge him with a nod. “I’m Prince Jean’s, uh.. personal assistant.”

“Nice to meet you Marco,” Armin smiles again before the two stand in a comfortable silence, leaning against the stone railing and watch the practice match starting below.

It’s an interesting sight to finally see up close, Marco has to admit, but the loud clanging of the swords makes him flinch a few times. But the sharp noises don’t seem to bother Jean or Eren, and as the minutes ago by, Marco can’t help but notice that Jean’s swings were weaker but more precise, while Eren’s were stronger but sloppier. But their footwork was about at the same level and the two boys are grinning now, making quick remarks about one another and barely resembling the snarling enemies that Marco had first seen them as together.

“I always remind them that they get along fine when they actually _try_ , but they never listen,” Armin mutters with a small but fond smile on his face.

“Eren already seems as stubborn to me as Jean does,” Marco replies, and Armin nods his head with a quiet chuckle.

“Stubborn is putting it lightly,” he adds, and this time Marco chuckles as well, and he refocuses his attention on Jean, admiring his practice movements as he and Eren are weaving in all over the courtyard until it almost looks like the two are dancing. That unfamiliar weight starts to settle in his stomach again but Marco quickly shakes it off.

“I’m a little surprised to be admitting it already,” Marco speaks up again, “But.. Prince Jean’s not nearly as bad a person as I thought he’d be. All those rumors I grew up around made him sound like some lustful devil, but.. he’s a surprisingly decent guy.” Marco feels Armin turn his gaze towards him, but he keeps his own eyes on Jean and Eren, who are still swinging their sparring swords with vigor and cursing whenever their blades slip in the wrong direction or clash at an odd angle. “He’s got more of a temper than I expected but beyond that.. he’s not bad at all.”

“Always the same,” Armin suddenly says. Marco looks over at the blond boy and Armin sighs when he sees Marco’s brow furrowing in confusion. “Whenever someone meets Jean for the first time, it’s always the same kind of reaction as yours.” Armin explains, “Everyone always has this awful image of Jean in their mind; they always picture a lazy and petulant Prince that cares nothing for Trost and its people, and who only lusts after women and money. Then they actually meet Jean face-to-face, and though they’re always surprised, they never apologize for being so wrong about him, and I’m not even sure how such rumors about him started in the first place. It’s like the civilians just want to see Jean as a petulant child.”

“Well, it’s not just the citizens either, Armin.. I’ve heard a couple here people admit that they think he’s petulant,” Marco remarks quietly, suddenly hoping that Armin doesn’t ask for any specific names, but the blond just frowns and remains silent. “Not to say that he is, but.. maybe it’s just something you don’t notice because you’re always near him.”

“Jean may be the Prince, Marco, but you must know by now that he wasn’t born into his position,” Armin replies as he looks away from Marco to observe the two young men sparring in the courtyard once more. “He was born with no titles, hardly any wealth. His Nameday wasn’t a city wide celebration either, but at least he wasn’t the victim of such low and ignorant opinions.”

Marco winces at that, but he hears no malice in Armin’s tone; only something close to pity.

“I won’t pretend that he has no flaws,” Armin continues quietly, “But like even you said, Marco, he’s not nearly as bad as people say he is. He’s been a good friend to me for most of my life, so it’s terrible hearing those kinds of rumors and remarks about him all day..”

Armin falls silent and Marco does nothing to break it this time. The two keep their eyes on Eren and Jean, who are starting to look like they’d rather be done with their lesson instead of concentrating on the way they’re swinging their swords under the blazing sun, but Marco can practically hear Armin’s mind buzzing with whatever thoughts he’s focused on. His own tongue suddenly feels restless in his mouth as Marco thinks over the countless questions that he wants answers to but doesn’t know how to bring up.

“So how did it happen then, Armin?” Marco finally asks, breaking the silence between them and regaining Armin’s attention. “If he wasn’t born into it, how exactly did Jean come to be the Prince of Trost?” Armin frowns, and the look of discomfort that flashes over the blond boy’s face startles Marco a little. But then Armin sighs in resignation and glances down towards Jean, a distant look in his eyes.

“I’m not really sure that it’s my story to tell,” Armin replies quietly, but when he takes a deep breath and turns to face Marco again, the freckled boy feels his chest flutter with the sudden excitement. “It came to be about a decade or so ago, when the last war was going on. Jean’s father-”

“Gah! You cut my fucking hand, horse-face!”

Armin and Marco both jump at the sudden shout that rings through the air and the two quickly turn to look back down into the courtyard. The swords have been hastily discarded on the ground, and Jean is standing over Eren, who is glowering up at the Prince and gripping his wrist. Marco winces a little when he sees the deep cut on the back of Eren’s wrist that has started to brighten with the blood bubbling up towards the wound.

“Like I fucking _meant_ to! If you’d been moving your damn feet properly our blades wouldn’t have slipped!” Jean snaps back at him, and Armin sighs heavily, stepping away from the railing and heads back towards the stairway that leads down to the courtyard. Marco hesitates for a moment to glance back down at Jean, who is actually starting to look more apologetic while Eren curses on, and he sighs as well before hurrying after Armin. If a little slip of the blade was all it took to break the peace between those two, Marco couldn’t help but wonder what sort of bad vibes they had between them in the first place.

“Stop squirming Eren, you’re just going to tear it open even more.” Armin says as Marco reaches the group. He’s gripping the sleeve of Eren’s tunic and using it to wipe away the blood welling up from the cut, and Eren is struggling to pull his hand free, but for such a skinny boy Armin seemed to have a surprisingly strong grip on him. “Will you stop it!? It’s not even that deep.”

“It still fucking stings, Armin!” Eren snarls back at the blond, trying to jerk his hand away again as Armin gently wipes away the blood surrounding the cut. Jean scoffs loudly, shaking his head as he steps away from Eren and towards Marco. All the while he pointedly ignores the fresh wave of insults that Eren starts throwing at him, and Marco finds himself half-wondering where Eren actually found the gall to speak to a Prince like he did. But Armin didn’t look even remotely alarmed and Jean only seemed mildly irritated, so their feuds must’ve been a more common occurrence than Marco initially thought.

“He’s acting like I cut his damn hand off,” Jean mutters out loud, folding his arms over his chest. “It barely broke through his skin at all.”

“Well, it does look like it hurts,” Marco replies with a shrug. He tenses when Jean suddenly looks over at him, frowning, but when Marco notices that he at least looks a little less angry that he did before he relaxes a little. “Cuts always sting at first before they start aching, but as long as the wound is kept clean and closed early, you can just forget about them while they heal.” Jean raises his eyebrows, looking impressed, and Marco can’t help but give him a smug smile. “You’d be surprised what you can learn from a healer once he’s got enough wine in his system.”

“Marco,” Armin suddenly cuts in, and Jean, who’d started to say something, promptly shuts his mouth. The action doesn’t escape Marco’s notice, but Marco looks away from him to acknowledge Armin. “Can you go get some water from the kitchen?”

For a few seconds Marco considers turning the blond boy down – he wasn’t Armin’s new ‘companion’ after all – but then he just nods back in affirmation. Even if it wasn’t exactly life-threatening, Eren’s wound did need to be rinsed after all.

“Um, sure,” Marco replies, taking a step away from Jean before furrowing his brow. “I just need to know which direction the kitchen is-”

“I’ll go with you,” Jean suddenly grunts, earning surprised looks from the three others present, and he scowls when he notices the bewildered stares. “What? I can’t help him carry a bucket of damn water?”

“I didn’t say anything, Jean,” Armin hums in reply as he turns his attention back to Eren and resumes the task of keeping the bloody wrist clean. “But try to get it quickly. Like Marco said, this needs to be washed before Hanji can sew it up.”

“It doesn’t _need_ to be sewed, it just needs a wrap!” Eren objects loudly as the two walk away, and Marco glances back to see Eren holding his hand protectively to his chest, eyes filled with alarm. Armin sighs again and says something back to him, but Marco tunes them out as they head away from the courtyard and down the pathway that leads to the kitchen house.

As they’re walking Marco can feel Jean watching him again, as if the Prince still wanted to say something, but before long the entryway leading into the kitchen comes into view, and Marco slows down a little when he hears a pair of voices floating out through the doorway, which is promptly followed by a loud crash and several dull thuds.

“Ooh, that one’s really lumpy on one side – can I have it?”

“They’re _all_ lumpy, Sasha, they’re potatoes. Besides, I’ve already given you more than enough..”

Jean suddenly looks away from Marco when he hears the voices and stops walking, rubbing his face with an exasperated groan, and Marco pauses to glance back at him with a curious expression.

“But I’m still hungry! Just give me that little one there, Connie..”

“Stop that! If the cook catches me sneaking you food again we’re both going to get in trouble, Sash!”

“Oh, lighten up, Con! Dieter won’t notice one little potato missing!”

“Maybe not, but he’ll definitely notice at least _five_ of them missing!”

“Damn.. I was hoping we wouldn’t run into those two so early in the day,” Jean mutters before he starts striding forward once more, but he takes only a few steps forward and then stops again and looks back at Marco, who staggers to a sudden stop as well. “Look, I’m just going to warn you ahead of time, Marco – Connie and Sasha were probably dropped a lot by their wet nurses when they were babes, so if they seem a little.. _off_ to you, it’s because they are.” Marco just nods, unsure of what to say to something like that, and Jean takes another deep breath before stepping through the doorway of the kitchen with Marco close behind him.

The warm kitchen is much larger but just as crowded as Marco had expected it to be. The room is wide, with a tall ceiling and a cobblestone floor stained with years of use, and the brick walls are all lined with dozens of wooden shelves all overflowing with baskets of fruits and vegetables, hooks of meat, or sacks of flour and beans. A short row of huge cast-iron stoves sits on the far side of the room, the fires blazing brightly, and Marco can smell the distinct scent of baking bread wafting from at least one of them. Every flour-stained inch of the counters lining one wall is cluttered with a wide variety of cooking utensils, half-empty baskets, or mounds of potato and apple peelings, and Marco spots a pile of half-plucked chickens on the other side of a heaping basket of apples.

A brunette girl with a thick ponytail, who Marco assumes is Sasha, sits on the only fairly clear spot on the counter, but the sight of Jean walking in makes her hop down immediately. Marco almost laughs when a cloud of flour billows up behind her, but she doesn’t seem to notice it or the wet splatters across the seat of her dark trousers. Her actions make Connie – a short boy with a shaved head – spin around as well and instantly their faces light up with matching grins.

“Jean!” The two shout as they dive forward to embrace Jean, but Jean easily avoids the impact with a quick side-step, and the two whirl on him with disappointed scowls. There’s no denying that they look far more excited to see him than he is to see them, but Marco still spots the faint fondness shining in Jean’s eyes.

“Took you long enough to come see us, Jean,” Connie huffs indignantly, wiping his hands off on an apron that probably had more stains on it than cloth. “After I spent all those days _slaving_ over your Nameday feast.”

“You made one cake the night before and then got kicked out by Dieter when he found you feeding it to Sasha.”

“Ooh, look at that Sasha, our Prince is worthy of passing the God’s Judgment now,” Connie remarks loudly to the brunette girl, and Jeans rolls his eyes when the two burst into snickers. Marco smiles a little at the exchange and wonders why Jean had warned him about the pair. They seemed friendly enough if not a bit odd, and both looked vaguely familiar to Marco – making him wonder if he’d seen them before during the Nameday celebrations – but when they both suddenly look over from Jean to Marco their eyes suddenly lose the recognition and instead shine with curiosity.

“Oh, who’s he, Jean?” Sasha asks, looking from Marco to Jean while Connie just narrows his eyes and fixes the freckled boy with a critical stare. He leans forward to get a closer look and Marco can’t help but lean further back.

“He looks a little familiar,” Connie pipes up as well, and Marco steps back again when Connie gives his shoulder a sharp prod that nearly makes him wince. Jean, who watches the exchanges closely, suddenly scowls. “Can’t be a member of the King’s Guard, he’s not wearing the uniform.. New farrier? New squire? New-”

“Oh gods, he’s not a new cook is he?!” Sasha suddenly gasps, looking mortified at the thought. “I won’t allow it! No one makes chicken pies like Dieter does, and if you think you’re going to just stride in here and take his job, then-”

“Both of you knock it off!” Jean snaps, and Marco blinks as Sasha and Connie both straighten up and spin around to face the scowling Prince. “His name is Marco, he’s my new personal assistant, he’s not here to steal Dieter’s job, and Connie, Sasha is the damn farrier so if he were her replacement she wouldn’t be standing here with you.”

“Oh,” Connie and Sasha both say before shrugging in unison and it’s then that Marco realizes why Jean had seen fit to warn him beforehand.

“Anyway, if Jean’s interrupts are over it’s time for a formal introduction!” Sasha suddenly chirps, elbowing Connie out of the way to stand in front of Marco with a gleeful grin. “I’m Sasha Braus, resident stable girl and personal farrier to Erwin and Jean’s horses!” Marco smiles and opens his mouth to reply, but just takes another step back when Connie wedges his way between him and Sasha.

“Connie Springer!” he barks, holding out a hand covered in flour that Marco shakes after a moment of hesitation. “Kitchen boy and apprentice cook to Dieter! I pretty much call all the shots when he’s not around, so if you’re ever hungry in the middle of the day, you can-”

“Connie,” Jean suddenly interrupts and three sets of eyes fall on him. “Will you just go get us a bucket of water? We need to get back to Eren before Levi hears his damn tantrum and comes after all our heads.” Connie just huffs and makes his way outside, but Sasha sighs, settling her hands on her hips.

“Jean, what did you do to Eren this time?” Sasha asks, and Marco watches as Jean shoots her an incredulous look before he scowls again.

“I didn’t do anything!” Jean snaps, and Marco suppresses a snicker when he hears how offended Jean sounds. “He started to slack off during our damn spar! It’s his own fault, so don’t go accusing me of-!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Connie cuts in as he returns with a bucket of water in his hand, and Jean’s scowl deepens. “Don’t snap so easily, Jean, you’ll scare off your new assistant, and don’t act like it hasn’t happened before. Remember how you ran Nack away after five months?”

“What?! I didn’t run him away, he-!”

“Or poor Thomas, who left after only three?” Sasha adds before Jean can finish speaking, and Marco frowns when he notices that Jean is now fuming, but Connie and Sasha seem oblivious to the death glares the Prince is now giving them.

“Thomas _had_ to leave because of his father’s death, that had nothing to do with-”

“Not to mention Samuel,” Connie sighs with a shake of his head. “It’s a wonder in itself that he managed to last more than three weeks with you, especially since you two started to-”

“Don’t you two have work to be doing instead of standing around and talking about this useless shit!?” Jean suddenly snarls, his tone making Connie and Sasha both draw back, and Marco blinks as Jean snatched the bucket of water from Connie before he spins on his heel and storms out of the kitchen.

“..Was it something we said?” Sasha asks quietly, and Connie shrugs back at her as Marco bids them a quick fair well and hurries out after Jean, who is already halfway across the yard by the time Marco spots him.

Marco glances back towards the kitchen, returning a sheepish wave that Sasha is giving him, before he looks back towards Jean, who is still striding angrily several long paces ahead of him. The water is sloshing loudly in the bucket he’s carrying and some of it splashes out against the leg of his trousers, but Jean either doesn’t notice or just doesn’t care enough to acknowledge it.

Marco frowns and opens his mouth, intending to ask Jean who exactly who Nack and Thomas and Samuel had all been, but nothing comes out, and Marco instead remains quiet as they head away from the kitchen and back towards the courtyard, where Eren’s angry shouts can still be heard.

Marco's questions, it seemed, would have to wait.

~~~.~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up: Marco begins to think that every story holds a grain a truth, and Jean's royal responsibility starts to rear its head.


	6. Shadows of the Heretics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this chapter took way too long to finish.. My own fault really, that's what I get for deciding the rewrite my outline and change the direction of the story halfway through writing this. Still, I do enjoy snickering at all the foreshadowing in this chapter.
> 
> Anywho..
> 
> ~~
> 
> Marco learns that every story holds a grain a truth, and Jean's royal responsibility starts to rear its head.

~~~.~~~

Marco hears Jean mutter a quiet “Ahh shit” just moments before he notices that Eren and Armin are no longer alone in the courtyard.

He immediately recognizes Mikasa, who is kneeling down next to Eren and looking at his injured hand with mixture of sympathy and fury, while Commander Levi himself stood off to the side with Armin, who was apparently explaining to the two high-ranking guards why they’d come across Eren bleeding all over the courtyard. Rather than looking concerned, Levi is just eyeing the droplets of smeared blood on the ground with a look of disdain. Mikasa, it seemed, was doing all the worrying for the both of them.

“Finally! Did you two go all the way to Stohess to get the damn water?” Eren snaps at the returning pair before Armin can tactfully intervene, and Marco considers it a credit to Jean’s character that he doesn’t fling the bucket at Eren’s face, though it might’ve been Mikasa’s watchful stare that stopped him rather than his own sense of honor; Marco would bet a week’s worth of coin that it was the latter.

Still, judging by the sharp glare that Jean is giving Eren, Marco is sure that it could definitely still happen. Armin, still standing off to the side with Jean’s sheathed sword now propped up on his shoulder, looks just as surprised as Marco feels about the lack of flying buckets.

“Eren, don’t shout.” Mikasa says quietly, taking the bucket of water from Jean with a curt nod of thanks before she grabs onto Eren’s wrist and dips his hands into the bucket, and her hold only tightens when Eren hisses and tries to pull his hand back. “This wouldn’t have happened if you two weren’t so reckless without Captain Mike around to supervise you..”

“Where in the Wretched Hells was Mike today anyway?” Jean asks as he strides over towards Armin to retrieve his sword, and the blond boy looks all too relieved to have the weapon taken from him. “Don’t tell me that Erwin called another council meeting already..”

“If he had then I’d be there instead of out here listening to you brats pissing and moaning at each other,” Levi snaps and Marco jumps at the sudden voice, having forgotten that the Commander was even there. “Mike probably had business with Nanaba to deal with, not that it's any concern of your brats. Still, Prince Jean, even someone like you should know that the sudden rise in meetings would only mean bad news for us.”

“Someone like me?” Jean repeats. Marco sees his hands curling into fists and he quickly grabs onto Jean’s shoulder to stop him from taking a sudden step towards Levi. Jean may have had the Commander beaten in both rank and height, but there was still an obvious gap between their fighting skills, and Marco didn’t want to think about what would happen to him if his royal owner was brutally murdered just days after his purchase.

“OW! You’re going to make it worse!” Eren suddenly snaps, regaining Marco and Jean’s attention, and water sloshes from the bucket as he tries and fails yet again to tug his hand out of Mikasa’s firm grip. “Mikasa, just wrap the damn thing and leave me be!”

“Your drama would give Hanji a run for her coin, Eren.” Armin remarks quietly, but he just smiles when Eren shoots a glare his way. 

“Hells, I’ve seen people cut down in the battlefield that didn’t cry as much as you, shitty brat.” Levi remarks dryly, and Marco notices that Eren wince more at Levi’s words than he does while Mikasa tightly winds a bandage around his injured hand. “His hand looks worse than it is Mikasa, now leave him to Arlert. We’ve still got a whole damn city to patrol before the sun goes down.”

“As you command, Ser Levi,” Mikasa replies, looking like she wanted nothing more than to stay by Eren’s side, but she still stands and steps away from Eren as Armin kneels down to take her place. Levi shoots Jean and Marco a bored look as Mikasa returns to his side, and mutters something about “shitty brats all over the grounds” as the two of them head off.

“You’re still going to see Hanji,” Armin remarks as he dips Eren’s hand back down into the bucket of soiled water, seeming largely unfazed by the very loud protests Eren starts squawking at him. “You can either go with me to see Hanji willingly, or I’ll have Levi and Mikasa drag you down to her laboratory. A little needle’s not going to be the end of you.”

“He’s like a damn babe,” Jean mutters under his breath after another pained yelp from Eren cuts through the air, and Marco has to bite back an amused smile when the noise makes Jean scowl again. “Do me a favor, Marco – if I ever get stabbed and start crying like a child, put me out of my damned misery.”

“I think a servant mercy killing the Prince would be frowned upon, but I’ll do my best,” Marco replies jokingly. No matter what he said even in jest, Marco knew that there was no way in any of the Wretched Hells that he could ever take another life, especially not the life of a _Prince_. “So, since your sparring partner’s been mortally wounded, what are you going to do now?”

“ _Now_ I’d like to get away from all these people for a while,” Jean replies before flashing Marco a grin. “You want to ride with me?”

“Right now, Jean? Here in the open?” Marco asks, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t take you for the type but if you really want to..”

“What?” Jean blinks, glancing back at Marco with a confused frown before his face slackens into a deadpan look of realization. “ _Horses_ , Marco. I want to ride my horse.”

“Oh.. Less interesting.” Marco mutters, smiling to himself as he shrugs and follows after Jean. “Sure. I’ve never been on a horse but it might be interesting to watch."

“Really?” Jean says with a note of disbelief as he and Marco leave the courtyard behind them and start to make their down a wide stone pathway that lead to a stable so large that it almost dwarfed the Sister Rose brothel. “You’ve been alive for nineteen years, and in all this time you’ve never once ridden a horse?”

“Not even once,” Marco replies with a shake of his head. “This may shock you Jean, but despite what some of those rumors may suggest there aren’t actually any horses at the Sister Rose. Still, I wouldn’t say that I’ve never ridden _anything_ , so-”

“All right, all right!” Jean quickly interrupts with a wave of his hand. “I’ll take your word for it so you can spare me the details..” 

Marco bites back a smile at the sight of the Prince’s face faintly turning red, and if a simple allusion to Marco’s past lifestyle was enough to make Jean blush, Marco wondered how Commander Levi and Hanji had ever come to the conclusion that Jean should be gifted a whore of all things. Then again, Marco never did see much use in learning to think like a Highborn before now either, so they must’ve had their own reasons.

Marco pauses by the open doorway to admire the (in his humble opinion) excessively large stable. With its high, red brick walls and windows framed by iron bars, it could’ve almost passed as a smaller replica of the Castle behind them. The thought of that makes Marco scoff before he follows Jean into the stables. There's more stalls than he can count, and Marco smiles as a few of the more curious horses poke their heads out of their stalls to see who had come in. 

“You’ll be taking Starlight today. Spotted horse for the spotted boy,” Jean says with a grin as he and Marco stop in front of the last stall, and Marco jumps back a little when the black-spotted head of a white mare swings into view over the stable door. Jean snickers at the sight and briefly touches his hand to Marco’s shoulders to reassure him that it was safe. “Starlight was the first horse I learned to ride here.. I even named her, after her coat reminded me of the night sky.”

“Oh, you were so clever, Jean, even then,” Marco replies teasingly and Jean grins back at him as he unlatches the stall door and gently tugs at the rope attached to the spotted mare’s bridle. Marco takes another step back as Starlight strides out of her stall; she wasn't the biggest horse he'd ever seen, but she was still big enough to make him a little wary. “You sure this thing’s not going to throw me and break my neck?”

“If I thought that then I wouldn’t be offering to let you right her, would I?” Jean retorts as he briefly adjusts the saddle that Starlight is wearing before he hands the rope over to Marco. “But if it makes you feel any better, Buchwald and I will be nearby if anything happens.”

“ _Buchwald_?” Marco repeats with a snort, and he laughs out loud when Jean scowls back at him with another faint blush darkening on his face.

“Don’t make fun of my horse or I’ll put you on Levi’s mean little mare – she’ll _definitely_ throw you across the field and break bone.” Jean mumbles as he approaches the stall of a large brown gelding and leads him out of his stall as well. Marco follows closely behind them as Jean leads them all out of the stables and into the wide yard, standing off to the side as Jean inspects Buchwald's saddle as well before looking at Marco over his shoulder. “You need any help getting on?”

“I think I can manage this,” Marco replies as he slips his foot into the stirrup of Starlight’s saddle, with only a little fumbling, and he hauls himself up with a grunt, conscious of every move he makes since he can feel Jean’s gaze still on him. He’d seen members of the City Watch mounting and dismounting horses all the time, so that part was easy enough. Marco exhales softly as he settles back in the saddle and makes sure he has a grip on the reins before he flashes Jean a triumphant smirk. “See that? Nothing to it.”

“We’re so impressed, aren’t we Buch?” Jean remarks to his horse, smirking when his gelding tosses his head back with a loud snort. Marco just huffs again as Jean climbs up onto his own horse without any obvious effort, and he feels a pleasant warm in his chest when Jean grins over at him. _Cheeky bastard._

“No one likes an arrogant prince, Jean.” Marco mutters as he grips the side of the saddle to adjust his seating position, and he hears Jean chuckling to himself as Buchwald trots over to stand beside Starlight. “All right, I’m on the horse. Now what?”

“Nudge your heels behind her belly to get her to move forward, just don’t kick her too hard.” Jean instructs before nudging his own heels against Buchwald’s side to demonstrate. Sure enough, the gelding takes a few long strides forward, and stops as soon as Jean gives the reins a gentle tug. "You can slacken your hold on the reins too, Marco. She knows what to do.”

“I don’t trust you or this horse right now,” Marco mumbles as he settles back in his saddle again, slipping his feet out of the stirrups as he adjusts himself against the unfamiliar leather seat, but before he can move Starlight suddenly tosses her head with a loud snort and bolts forward, and Marco yelps as he feels himself falling backwards, the reins slipping from his hands as he slides off of the saddle and crashes down onto the grassy ground below.

The fall hurts less than he’d expected it to but Marco still winces as he sits up and rubs at his lower back, and he does feel a small blow to his pride when he realizes that Jean, clearly having just witnessed the whole thing, is laughing behind him. _  
_

“Nicely done, Marco!” Jean calls down to him, and even the traitorous Buchwald looks amused as they watch Marco’s spotted mare trot past them. “Unless of course falling off a horse and landing on your ass _wasn’t_ what you were trying to do.”

“Oh piss off, Jean!” Marco laughs as he manages to push himself into a sitting position. His stomach jolts when he realizes what he’d just said to the _Prince_ , but the sound of Jean’s laughter soon follows the second of silence, and Marco sighs as relief floods through him. If Jean wasn’t the kind of person to humor a slip of the tongue then Marco was sure that his words would’ve sent him straight to the gallows.

“Are you all right, Marco?” Jean asks with more sincerity as he slides out of Buchwald’s saddle, also casting Starlight a curious glance as he offers a hand down towards him. “Starlight’s usually pretty calm so I don’t know what that was.”

“Maybe my lack of horse-related knowledge spooked her..” Marco jokes as he takes Jean’s hand and gets to his feet, and he hears Jean him thoughtfully as he helps Marco brush bits of grass off of his clothes. “I really don't know, Jean.. She probably just saw a wolf over in the woods or something,”

“Doubt it,” Jean huffs in reply, nodding his head towards the dark outskirts of the forest behind them. “As far as we know nothing lives in those woods. Commander Levi says that he sends a patrol through there at least once a week just to be sure but they never come across anything, human or animal. Kind of unnerves him, actually, and anything that shakes a guy like him can't be good.”

“Well, maybe there’s something neither human nor animal in there that they just can’t find,” Marco says with a shrug, and Jean stares at him for a moment before he grins and shakes his head, patting Marco lightly on the shoulder.

“Looks like telling you about the creatures in those books was a bad idea after all,” Jean remarks with a grin, looking away from Marco when Starlight wanders back over to them, her head hung as if in apology and Marco gently brushes his hand along her soft snout before he takes the reins in his hands again. “Anyway, Marco, why don’t you give it another go?”

“Might as well, since that first fall didn’t cripple me,” Marco replies, walking around Starlight and gently patting her side before he pulls himself up onto the mare’s back and settles back in the saddle once more, his movements a little more fluid this time. Hopefully _that_ would put the horse more at ease. “Right, let’s try this again..”

Keeping a firm hold on the reins Marco nudges his heels against Starlight’s side, and he wobbles briefly when the mare starts to move forward, her slow walk soon turning into a slow but steady trot. The movement of the horse feels odd at first but not uncomfortable, and Marco soon pushes his lingering nerves out of his mind and instead focuses on keeping his balance as Starlight paces around the area.

“There you go!” Jean calls out as Buchwald trots alongside from somewhere behind them. Marco grins to himself before he gives Starlight’s side another gentle squeeze with his legs, gripping the reins again as the spotted mare suddenly charges forward, moving with a familiar ease over the grassy fields. It takes him a few moments to find the rhythm he needs to move with Starlight’s galloping but before long the world around him is a blur and the sound of Buchwald’s beating hooves fade behind him.

Marco can’t help but let out a short, giddy laugh as his horse seems to fly through the field, seeming to cast the world and everything that he was behind him. He couldn't believe he'd never done this before.. Of course part of him was scare shitless that he was going to fall off of the horse at any moment, but the rest of him embraced the unfamiliar rush of freedom. It was nicer than anything he'd felt in a long while.

He should’ve known things were going to well.

Suddenly the faint sound of Jean’s voice reaches him, snapping him out of his thoughts, and Marco startles a little when he realizes that Starlight has whirled around and was now making a beeline for the forest. Marco yelps as he scrambles to keep a hold of the mare’s reins, and he can hear Jean somewhere behind him, calling out to Marco in a panicked voice that’s steadily growing quieter.

“S-Stop!” Marco yells as he tugs at Starlight’s reins but the mare just snorts, still charging forward, and Marco feels a pang of fear in his stomach when he sees the mare’s eyes are rolling wildly in her head as they burst through the treeline and into the woods. “W-Whoa, Starlight, stop!”

The sound of Jean’s voice fades completely as Starlight bolts further into the forest, and Marco has to duck down to avoid being hit by the low hanging branches. Despite them repeatedly striking her in the face, the branches don’t seem to faze Starlight at all. Marco yelps again when she suddenly leaps over a fallen log, landing a little shakily on the other side, and when Marco grips the side of her neck to steady himself he feels a faint dampness against her coat. Marco curses out loud, wondering why the mare was panicked and sweating when she’d seemed fine only moments ago.

Starlight suddenly slams to a stop at the top of a steep hill , her hooves briefly slipping over the damp ground, and Marco cries out as he flies forward from the sudden halt, slipping off of the horse's back and down towards the ditch, the world spinning around him as skids and slides down the hill. He hears Starlight neighing furiously at the top of the hill, her panicked cries echoing around the forest, but they seem to fade just as Marco hits the forest floor below.

For a few moments Marco could only lay there, dazed and breathless, and he lets out a quiet groan as he slowly rolls himself over onto his stomach. His face and arms are smeared with dirt and peppered with tiny scratches, and he was pretty sure that he’d rolled over a small boulder on the way down, but he’s grateful that at least nothing feels broken.

“I hate that horse..” Marco mutters as he sits up and rubs the back of his head with a slight wince. Having caught his breath, he stumbles up onto to his feet with a quiet huff, brushing the dead leaves and bits of twig out of his hair and clothes before he looks up to inspect his new surroundings.

Gods, this forest was dark..

The trees, taller than any Marco had ever seen before, grew so close together that no light seemed to penetrate the thick canopy far above him, and the bark on the trees was so dark that it looked black from where Marco stood. Another thing that made Marco feel a rush of unease was the utter silence. He’d never actually been in a forest before, but he’d listened to enough stories from drunken hunters and woodsmen to know that a forest should’ve been filled with twittering birds and the occasional scampering rodent, but there was nothing more than a heavy silence buzzing in Marco’s ears.

“Starlight?” Marco calls out quietly, straining his senses for any sight or sound of his horse. He was pretty sure that the mare had bolted as soon as he’d been thrown, but he’d heard that some horses sought out their riders after an accident. Unfortunately for him, it didn’t seem like Starlight was one of those fabled horses, and a spotted white horse would’ve been easy to spot even in such a dark forest.

Oh, the Gods hated him. His horse was gone, and he had no idea which direction would take him back to the castle.

A sudden impact from behind knocks the breath back of out his lungs and Marco lets out a startled yelp as he suddenly finds himself on his stomach with a heavy weight settling between his shoulder blades. The painful pressure causes him to gasps sharply, coughing when his breath billows a cloud of loose dirt up into his face, but before he can even demand the identity of his attacker they’re gripping a handful of his hair and tugging his head backwards. Marco hisses sharply, but promptly falls silent when he feels a cold, sharp pressure against his throat.

A dagger.

His attacker speaks, and Marco flinches from from the sharp sound. Their voice is sharp and definitely that of a woman, but the words being spoken sound more like guttural hissing than any words that he knows.

“I-I can’t understand you!” Marco finally splutters. His attacker speaks again, and her tone sounds like she’s asking a question but Marco just shakes his head helplessly, unable to focus on anything other than the dagger pressing harder against his throat with a prickling pain. Marco never imagined that his death would be a memorable or extravagant affair, but even he didn’t want to die alone in a forsaken forest. “I don’t know what you want!”

His attacker falls silent at his words, her weight shifting against his back but not lifting entirely, and Marco lets out a gasp of relief when the dagger is suddenly pulled away from his throat. He tries to raise a hand to ensure that no damage had been done, but the movement causes his attacker to increase the pressure of her knee against his shoulder blades, and Marco grunts from the jolt of pain that spreads through his back.

“Foreigner.” The woman suddenly says before she stands up, taking a step away from him, and Marco wastes no time before he scrambles away from her, crawling several feet forward before he rolls onto his back to get a look at his attacker, but the hood of a long, black cloak is drawn over her head. Marco’s gaze drops down to the dagger still being gripped in her hand. There’s no blood visible on the blade, but he still raises a hand to brush his fingers over the stinging spot on his throat, and relief floods through him when his hand comes back clean. He hopes that if this woman _really_ wanted him dead then he probably would’ve been bleeding out all over the forest floor by now.

“Foreigner.” She suddenly says again, and Marco furrows his brow as he pushes himself up into a sitting position.

“What? No, I’m not a foreigner.” Marco protests quietly, briefly pausing when he sees a flash of the tawny eyes hidden in the shadows of the woman’s hood.

“Trespasser, then.” The woman replies promptly and Marco hastily scoots back when she takes a step towards him and raises her dagger again. “You’re trespassing. These woods are not yours.”

“Obviously not,” Marco quickly agrees, praying to every God he knows that someone or something will come along soon and save him from this mad hooded woman. “Even I know that these are the King’s woods.. I’m just a servant in the castle, I don’t-”

“The castle?” she suddenly interrupts, and he tenses again when she seems to look him over, if the movement of her head is any indication. “I see.. Too jumpy to be a guard, too well-built to be a servant, and too underdressed to be a Highborn. Let me guess then.. Are you the Prince’s new whipping boy?”

“No, I’m not,” Marco sighs again, suddenly feeling impatient with this hooded stranger. He wanted to leave these damn woods far behind him and now that the immediate threat seemed to have passed it felt like she was simply toying with him now. “Yes, I do belong to the Prince now, although he doesn’t like saying it that way, but I was brought here to be his personal companion.”

“A 'personal companion' for the Prince? Ahh, I understand now.. You’re the castle’s new whore,” she says with an unpleasant purr in her voice, and for the first time in years that word makes Marco flinch. “So you’re the one I’ve heard about then, the one they bought from that brothel. It must be nice, always face-down on a feather bed and taking a royal cock every night. Does he make you call him “Your Highness” before or during?”

“Jean’s not like that!” Marco snaps, feeling his face starting to flush with anger at her crude words. He didn’t like the way she spoke so freely, as if she knew how Jean treated him, or how Jean treated _anyone_. He may have thought the same sort of thoughts before his initial meeting with Jean, but now that he knew him a little better Marco could understand Armin’s frustration when he'd heard his own curt comments about the Prince. “He doesn’t see me like that and he won’t use me until I-”

“So not only are you his whore, but you’re a useless whore at that,” the woman cuts in again, and Marco winces away from her. “Save your protests for someone else, boy. Your Prince can give you any special title that he can think of, but to those that have always known a castle’s comfort, a whore is a whore no matter whose bed they lie in.”

“You don’t know him..” Marco mutters quietly, his voice wavering a little. “He still has his moments, but he’s not that kind of man..”

“And yet you’re still a toy whether he plays with you or not,” she interrupts yet again, suddenly sounding bored with the conversation. “Don’t give yourself more value than you really have, and don’t think that they'll ever forget what you are, boy.”

“My name’s not ‘boy’!” Marco suddenly snaps, another flare of anger burning in his chest. “It’s Marco.”

“Hmm.. Marco. Boy. Whore. You are what you are, and in the end you’re still just a trespasser.” She replies, and Marco furrows his brow when she suddenly glances around, as if hearing something that he couldn’t. “These are not the King’s woods, foolish Marco, and you need to leave before you see something that doesn’t want itself to be seen.”

“Something that doesn’t want to be seen?” Marco repeats as the hooded woman slowly looks around at the dark forest again. “Wait, you mean something _does_ live in this forest? Jean says that Levi and the others have never-”

“Don’t let them see you looking for them, Marco.” The hooded woman suddenly says, and Marco draws his head back a little when she flashes him a toothy grin from beneath the shade of her hood. “They don’t like being seen.”

“Who doesn’t-?” Marco starts to ask but jumps and whirls around when a branch suddenly snaps behind him. Marco gulps when he hears a low voice muttering quiet curses and hurriedly looks back towards the hooded woman, but then blinks when he sees nothing but an empty clearing. No footprints, no shadows, and even the ground she’d been standing on looked untouched.

He couldn’t have imagined that.. could he?

“-stupid damn horse, throwing him and making a liar out of me..” Jean’s voice suddenly pipes up somewhere behind him again, and relief floods through Marco as he turns back around towards the source of the noise.

“Jean?” Marco calls out with a hint of uncertainty. After what he’d just witnessed, he wasn’t really sure what to believe as truth or illusion.

“Marco!” Jean's voice calls back moments before a cluster of nearby branches are pushed apart, allowing Jean to step into the clearing, and Marco sees Jean’s eyes fill with relief as well when their gazes meet. “Marco, what’re you doing? You shouldn’t just stand around in this place! You’re not hurt, are you?”

“Uh, no, I don’t think I am,” Marco replies, bringing a hand up and briefly brushing it across the spot on his throat that still stung a little from the earlier pressure of the dagger. Jean clearly notices the action and frowns, but doesn't question it. “I was just.. Starlight bolted on me.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Jean replies as he brushes a few leaves out of his own hair before his eyes start to over the dark forest, as if still searching for the horse. Marco looks around as well, but searches instead for the hooded stranger, who’d disappeared the moment Jean’s voice had cut through the air. An angry scoff from Jean returns Marco’s attention to him and the freckled boy nearly jumps back when he sees that Jean is now only a few inches away from him. “I’m sorry Marco – Starlight’s never behaved like that with me, and only Levi’s squad has ever been able to get the horses to come into the forest before.. If I thought for a second that she was going to- ”

“Jean, really, I’m fine,” Marco insists as he takes a small step towards Jean, who is still looking him over with a concerned frown. Though he couldn’t see her anymore, Marco couldn’t help but feel that that hooded stranger was still watching him, or, for all Marco knew, had run off to get reinforcements that would definitely kill them both. Either way, he didn’t want to be in this forest any longer than necessary. “Let’s just go.” For a moment Jean remains unmoving, uncertainty burning in his eyes, but then he finally sighs and nods his head.

“Fine..” Jean says, waving a hand at Marco as he turns and walks back towards the pathway he’d come from before. “I’ll have Erd and Gunther keep an eye out for Starlight during their patrol tonight. If she’s still in this forest, she’s not likely to remain in here for very long.”

“Right,” Marco replies as he hastily runs after Jean. He doesn’t feel right just leaving Starlight behind, even if she had thrown him down a hill, but Jean was probably right – animals usually knew how to keep themselves alive, and Starlight wasn’t an unintelligent horse. She’d leave the forest soon enough, if she hadn’t bolted back to the stables already.

As they walk, the darkness of the forest around them slowly begins to lessen, and Marco sighs with relief when he sees a few rays of sunlight finally breaking through between the trees on the path ahead of them. Even from here, he can hear the faint neighing coming from the stables up ahead, along with.. Wait, were those bells? Jean suddenly stops mid-step, and Marco stumbles backwards to avoid crashing into him from behind.

"Jean?" Marco asks as he steps around the Prince and moves to stand beside him. "What is it?"

“That’s Sina, the King’s Bell.. She can be heard all around the city, so they use her to call Levi and the guard back to the castle.” Jean replies, and when Marco glances towards him again he sees as flicker of fear suddenly pass through Jean’s eyes. But before Marco can speak again Jean is charging ahead, his face set in a grim frown. “We need to get back now, Marco. If Sina’s ringing then something’s wrong.”

~~.~~

The castle is a flurry of commotion by the time Marco and Jean step into the throne room, and Marco is a little startled by the number of people lingering around.

He can see Eren standing nearby, waving his hands around angrily as he speaks to Armin and Mikasa in a hushed tone, and Marco thinks he spots Sasha and Connie as he follows Jean through the crowds, but they've both ducked out of sight before he can be sure. Marlowe and Boris stand on the outskirts of the crowd, and though Boris looks completely bored Marlowe looks more alert than ever, one hand resting against the hilt of his sword.

Most of the faces around him are unfamiliar, and the majority of the crowd’s urgent conversations are nothing but buzzing to Marco’s ears but he’s able to make out the same word from nearly every person: _Heretics._

Well.. That couldn’t have been good.

“Prince Jean, there you are!”

Marco looks up at the unfamiliar voice, and he draws back a little when he sees a young but tall blond man wearing the green cloak of the City Watch approaching them.

“Ser Erd,” Jean replies in greeting as the blond man comes to a stop in front of them. Erd gives Jean a respectful nod but if he notices Marco’s presence he doesn’t show it. Marco’s not sure if he’s relieved or irritated right now, though he was leaning towards the former, with a little too much tension in the air for his liking.

“The King’s called for an immediate meeting of the Council, your Grace,” Erd says to Jean, raising his voice to be heard over the hum of the crowds around them. “Commander Levi, Captain Mike and Hanji are already with him, but Erwin’s asked for the presence of you and Captain Nile as well.”

“A Council meeting on such short notice? What in the Wretched Hells is going on?” Jean demands as he and Erd make their way through the crowds, and Marco, unsure of what else to do in such a situation, follows after them. “The last time that Sina rang, the city was going to war.”

“I wouldn’t say we’re too far off from that now,” Erd replies quietly as they come to a stop in front of a thick iron door with two guards standing on both sides of it. “But even what I know is limited – Command Levi will have to give you the full details, but the rest of my squadron and I still have to go on patrol. Erwin doesn’t want the ringing of Sina to spook the civilians too much.” As Jean nods in agreement Erd finally looks down at Marco, and Marco narrows his eyes when Erd simply frowns. “Your assistant will have to stay behind – I don’t think the King’s in the mood to humor an unwanted guest.”

“I.. Right,” Jean replies as Erd bows his head again before striding away, and he turns to look back at Marco, his voice lowering when he speaks again. “Sorry, but you can’t come with me past this door, Marco. I’ll tell you what I know when I see you again but for now just try to stay out of the way.”

Jean is walking away before Marco can speak again, but as the guards slam the heavy door shut behind the Prince, Marco can’t help but feel a bitter pang in his stomach.

_You’re a toy whether he plays with you or not. The King’s not in the mood to humor an unwanted guest. Just try to stay out of the way._

“What else did I expect?” Marco mutters under his breath, and he takes a few hasty steps back when the guards suddenly shoot him suspicious glares. Marco returns their staring with a scowl of his own before spinning on his heel and walking away from them. He hated to admit it but that hooded stranger was right; he’d been getting too comfortable by Jean’s side, and now it seemed like everyone in the castle was constantly ready to remind him of what he really was..

“Oi, Marco!” Blinking, Marco looks over his shoulder in time to see Sasha emerging from the crowds with Connie close behind her, both of them looking excited and nervous at the same time. “Have you heard the news of the attack?”

“Attack?” Marco repeats, a chilled feeling suddenly creeping over him. “Attack on what?”

“Well we don’t know everything yet, but they’re saying that Ilse Lagner, one of the King’s personal scouts, was attacked by the heretics,” Sasha says after taking a moment to catch her breath. “She was on her way to visit the walls up north, since no reports from the men stationed there have been coming in lately, but they say she was ambushed and killed before she could get there.”

“Her horses’ body was found near the gates of the city an hour ago,” Connie pipes up eagerly. “Hanji says the stallion ran so hard his heart burst, and there’s even a rumor going around that her head was in a bag tied to his saddle!”

“W-What?!” Marco exclaims, his eyes widening as he looks back and forth between the two of them. “That’s.. Wait, the heretics haven’t done something that bold since before the last war, have they?”

“No, they haven’t, and that’s why everyone’s so worried,” Sasha replies quietly. “There have been a few more skirmishes than usual lately, but never something this gruesome, and it was common knowledge that Ilse reported directly to King Erwin himself, so this won’t be overlooked as an isolated incident.”

“The fact that no one’s heard from the men we have stationed at the northern walls had Commander Levi’s attention already," Connie pipes up, "So if the heretics won’t let any of the King’s men through at all, then they’re openly challenging the King’s strength and authority by declaring him a trespasser in his own kingdom.”

“Eren thinks that the King’s going to lead a force there himself, and if he and his company are attacked as well then there won’t be any easy ways to avoid bloodshed," Sasha adds in a worried tone, "Wounding or killing the King would send the country into chaos.”

“What about Jean?” Marco asks before he can stop himself. “If King Erwin and the others do march up north, what’s going to happen to him?”

“If Commander Levi stays behind, then Jean’s life won’t change.” Connie replies with a shrug. “He'll continue on with his training as usual. But if Erwin brings Levi along, and he probably will, then Jean will be the acting King until he returns. If, Gods forbid, the King doesn’t return, then Jean will be crowned as the next King and the decision to go to war will be up to him.”

“If that happens then a war against the heretics is definitely inevitable,” Sasha says quietly, and Marco sees her exchange an quick, unreadable look with Connie. “He doesn’t show it often, but Jean _really_ despises the heretics after what they did to his family. That’ll be a massacre no matter who comes out as the victor.”

“He’d really send the entire kingdom into war out of spite?” Marco asks, frowning when Sasha and Connie simultaneously nod back at him. His mind suddenly wanders back to what Armin had mentioned when Marco wanted to know how Jean had become the Prince. He’d started saying something about Jean’s father.. “So what exactly did the heretics do to make him hate them so much?”

“They made him the next heir to the throne.” A new voice behind Marco suddenly cuts in. Connie and Sasha both straighten up as Marco turns around to face the speaker, and he takes an unconscious step back when he sees a broad-shouldered man with short-cropped black hair towering over them. “Braus, Springer, are you two so caught up on your chores that you have time to stand around and discuss other people’s business?”

“Apologies, Ser Gunther,” Sasha stammers out, and Marco perks up at the familiar name that he’d heard from Jean earlier. Ser Gunther was another member of Levi’s personal squad, if his memory served correctly. “We were just heading out now, weren’t we Connie?”

“Right, we were just heading down to the kitchens!” Connie affirms, giving Sasha’s shoulder a gentle nudge before the two of them dart away, and Marco straightens up when Gunther’s dark eyes flicker over to him instead.

“You, boy, don’t hold any truth to these rumors until we know everything.” Gunther orders sharply, and Marco barely has the chance to nod his head before Gunther turns and strides away, his green cloak billowing behind him. Marco exhales deeply once the guard is out of sight but now, without Jean or the others nearby, his presence in the room just feels uncomfortable and out of place. Marco sighs softly as he heads back towards the main entryway, but he glances back towards the door that Jean had gone through earlier, and curiosity buzzes through his mind as he wonders just what was going on with Jean and the upcoming decisions of the King’s Council.

~~.~~

He doesn’t see Jean for the rest of the afternoon, and when he and the other the occupants of the castle file into the dining hall for supper that night Jean’s chair, along with the entirety of the King’s table, is vacant. Marco rushes through his dinner and a short bath, wondering if Jean has already returned to his room by now, but the Prince’s chambers are empty when Marco walks in. The fresh sheets on Jean’s bed let Marco know that no one but the servants had been in the room since that morning, and he shuts the bedroom door behind him with a soft sigh.

In all his years Marco had never known Erwin to make a poor decision when it came to running the kingdom, and though he did trust the King to do what was right he couldn't help feeling a wave of apprehension. The heretics were clearly growing bolder, and if Erwin's plan to eradicate the threat failed, then the kingdom would fall into the second war since Marco's birth. That wasn't something he wanted to live through again, even if he was in a castle now rather than a brothel.

Marco crosses the room to sit on the bed and he lays back against the pillow with a heavy sigh, listening to the crackling of the flames in the fireplace as he stares up at the ceiling, and he’s nearly dozed off when the door suddenly swings open and Jean strides in. The noise jolts him back into complete consciousness, and Marco quietly sits up, opening his mouth to ask what was going on, but he trails off when he sees the anger burning in Jean’s eyes. For a moment he just watches as Jean closes the doors behind him, pacing for a moment as his hands curl into fists, and Marco wonders if Jean's even realized that he was there.

“So..” Marco starts quietly. Jean jumps a little and nearly stumbles back but then visibly relaxes when he sees who had spoken. Marco almost smiles at the sight, but the anger in Jean’s eyes returns almost instantly, and Marco remains quiet until Jean’s slipped out of his boots, padded vest, and the rest of his more cumbersome clothes until he’s left in nothing but trousers and a thin white tunic. “Jean.. Can I ask what’s going on?”

Jean doesn’t answer right away, and Marco briefly wonders if Jean hadn’t heard him or if he was just ignoring him, but before he can speak again Jean sighs heavily and turns around to meet his gaze.

“They’re heading up north,” Jean replies, brushing a hand through his hair as he kicks his discarded boots to the side and heads towards the bed. “Erwin’s leading a war party out at dawn. He’s.. Well, he’s hoping that an all-out war can be avoided, but he and Levi have both assured us that they’ll do whatever it takes to keep the Kingdom safe, and if that’s means declaring war against the heretical rebels then that’s what they’ll do..”

“You don’t want to go to war, do you?” Marco asks after a beat of silence. “Even if it’s against wall-worshiping heretics?”

“Does anyone ever _want_ to go to war?” Jean huffs as he sits on the edge of the bed with another heavy sigh. “If the ones up north surrender themselves to Erwin and the others then that’s the end of it. But we don’t know their numbers yet – attacking them could provoke heretic rebellions all over the kingdom. The army will spread out, and it’ll be nothing but bloodshed and chaos before it’s over. I’m hoping, for the sake of the kingdom, that they just surrender..”

“Well there has to be a hint of good news in here somewhere,” Marco says, frowning and reaching a hand out to touch the other boy's shoulder when Jean just scoffs at him. “I’m serious, Jean. With everything that’s suddenly going on, maybe this is a chance to prove yourself to the King and the rest of the city that you’re fit to be our next ruler. Erwin wouldn’t have left you in charge if he didn’t-”

“I wasn’t left in charge,” Jean interrupts sharply, and Marco draws his hand back, blinking as Jean leans forward, bracing his arms against his knees and scowling down at the floor. “If anyone thinks to ask we’ll _say_ that I’ve been left in charge, but that’s just a damned formality. Ser Gunther and Captain Nile are both staying behind to make sure things don’t fall into disarray while Erwin’s gone..”

“Oh. But.. that could still be a good thing in its own way,” Marco says again, this time with a hint of uncertainty. “I mean, you’ve said yourself that you don’t even want to be the next King so why not let those two handle things for you? The future’s so uncertain right now, so why not enjoy your freedom while you’ve still got it?”

“Because it’s still a humiliation, Marco!” Jean snaps as he spins around to face the freckled boy. “Whether I want it or not I’m still the Prince of Trost, but Erwin’s just proven in front of the _entire council_ that he doesn’t trust me to be in command. He expects me to wear the crown someday, but he's making it seem like he doesn’t want that any more than I do!” Jean turns away from Marco with an angry huff, and Marco frowns again when Jean’s shoulders suddenly sink as he lets out a defeat sigh. “He might as well have just said that he made a mistake with me..”

Marco opens his mouth but then, unsure of what he could say, simply closes it again. He found himself at a loss. He knew as much about Erwin as any citizen of the city, but he didn’t personally know the man well enough to offer Jean any real insight or words of reassurance, but.. that didn’t mean that he didn’t have _any_ methods of comfort to offer to Jean.

Marco hesitates for a brief moment before he slips off the side of the bed and walks around to stand in front of Jean. It takes a moment before Jean looks up but before he can question Marco’s actions the freckled boy gently grips his shoulder and steps forward, pushing Jean further back onto the bed.

“Marco..?” Jean stammers in surprise, his eyes widening as he’s suddenly pushed down onto his back before Marco climbs on onto the bed again, slotting his legs over Jean’s and shifting back some to straddle his waist. “M-Marco, what are you..?”

“Shh.. You need to relax, Jean, and I know exactly how to help you with that,” Marco replies quietly, slipping his hand down between them to brush his palm over the crotch of Jean’s trousers, and he smiles when he hears the almost inaudible intake of breath from Jean. He puts a little more pressure into his touch, feeling the tension in Jean's body started to lessen. Jean furrows his brow, still looking uncertain, but Marco is close enough now to see his pupils dilating and hear the soft hitch in his breath, and so he keeps his hand where it is. “You forget that I’ve learned things that would make men forget their own names.”

“Y-Yeah, you seem to know what you’re doing..” Jean whispers sharply, his eyes sliding shut as Marco keeps palming him through his trousers, and Marco smirks a little when he sees Jean’s fingers starting to curl around the loose sheets beneath them. He's glad that, if nothing else, at least he still had his skills going for him.

“Of course I do, Jean,” Marco whispers into Jean’s ear. He feels Jean trembling faintly as his mouth hovers above the side of his neck, and a familiar confidence fills Marco as he moves his face back in front of Jean’s and lets their lips almost brush together. “It’s my job after all..”

Then, just like that, Jean’s eyes are open and the dazed look on his face is gone.

“S-Stop it, Marco,” Jean suddenly commands, pressing a hand up against Marco’s chest as he gently but firmly pushes him away. Marco draws back completely, his brow furrowing as he sits up and leans away from the Prince still pinned beneath him. Jean stares back at him, face still flushed, and there’s a few beats of silence before Jean finally sighs and looks away with a shake of his head. “I.. I can’t. If you still think of it as your job then I won’t do it.”

 _So not only are you a whore, but you’re a useless whore at that._  
  
The words that suddenly echo in his head makes Marco wince as if he'd been slapped. Jean tenses up beneath him, as if he’d noticed the wince, and Marco sees his eyes flash with a sudden concern. Was Jean actually afraid that he’d just _offended_ him? Marco can’t help but scoff bitterly at the thought; what kind of Prince feared offending a whore?

“I see,” Marco replies, almost surprised by the sudden coldness hear can hear in his own voice. “I’m a little shocked, Jean; I didn’t think you wanted to be known as the Prince that wouldn’t play with his own toys, but I guess you’re full of surprises.” Jean blinks, gaping at him for a moment before reaching a hand out, but Marco moves away from him before he can stop himself and Jean’s arm recoils.

“What are talking about? You’re not-”

“You take all your horses and dogs out on hunts and rides, you train with your swords daily and you even put all the books that you seem to hate to good use,” Marco continues, looking away from Jean when his voice starts to shake. Jean just continues to stare at him with a look of bewilderment, clearly wondering where this sudden outburst was coming from, but Marco moves back when Jean reaches out towards him again. He feels so foolish, and humiliation burns in his chest and on his face. “Looks like all your property is being well used except for me.”

“All my..?" Jean repeats dazedly before he sits up completely, suddenly frowning. "Marco! I told you that’ you’re not my-”

“Yes, I know, you don’t like _calling_ me your property but I still am, aren’t I?” Marco snaps as he slides off of Jean’s lap and out of the bed, looking away from the stunned Prince when he feels his face starting to flush again. “Now if you’ll excuse me, _your Grace_ , I think I’d rather sleep in my own room tonight.”

With that Marco spins on his heels and strides out of the room, and he briefly hears Jean calling out to him and he pulls the door shut behind him. One of the guards standing further down the hall gives him a curious glance but Marco ignores him as he strides past and heads down the length of the familiar hallways until he makes it back to the servant’s quarters, and finally, to his own room. The door slams shut behind him and Marco drops down onto his bed, his heart pounding faintly as he glares at the wall across from him.

Jean doesn’t come after him, and Marco’s not entirely sure how that makes him feel.

~~.~~

It’s still dark outside when the faint chiming of bells wakes Marco up.

Marco yawns as he sits up, blinking blearily in the dim light of his room, but he perks up when he hears the bells ringing outside again. After taking a moment to stretch, Marco slips away from the warmth of his bed and makes his way to the window, where he's a little startled to see the King and his personal company riding up from the stables and through the courtyard.

It’s a parade of soldiers clad in green cloaks and riding dark-colored horses, but a few men carry gray banners with the emblem of King Erwin - a white bird’s wing back-to-back with a blue one - embroidered onto the fabric. The banners billow in the early morning wind and Marco’s eyes scan over the crowd until he sees King Erwin himself, clad in a handsome suit of armor, leading the company down their path and riding a white stallion that Marco had briefly seen during his trip to the stables. 

Riding on Erwin’s right flank is Commander Levi, and even through the darkness Marco can see that the he is closely followed by Hanji and Mikasa. Petra and quite a few other men that Marco doesn’t know ride a short distance behind them, and bringing up the rear of the group is two blondes that Marco doesn’t know; a tall, scruffy man with hair nearly hanging over his eyes and a shorter, thinner companion that Marco _thinks_ is a woman but the distance makes it impossible to tell. They both look vaguely familiar, but no names come to mind.

None of them seem to notice Marco and a few other curious servants watching them from above. Soon they've marched towards the front gates and out of sight, and Marco still stares out towards the city as the world steadily lightens around him. Before much longer the bells above stop chiming, and instead Marco hears the faint blowing of a horn somewhere in the distance.

Trost is now officially without her King, and the thought sends a small shiver down Marco’s spine.

With a soft sigh, Marco turns away from the window, and is almost back to the comfort of his bed when he sees a flicker of orange light suddenly pass under his door. Marco pauses, briefly wondering if he’d imagined it, but then he hears the very faint sound of boots against stone. Frowning, Marco crosses the room and quietly pulls his door open, stepping out into the hall and stumbling back when a torch is suddenly shoved towards his face.

“What is it?” an unfamiliar but sharp voice demands, and Marco squints, letting his eyes adjust to the new lighting as he faces the speaker. It’s a young blonde woman, and though she seems to be the same age as him Marco towers over her by at least a foot. She regards him coldly, seemingly unfazed by his height over her, and something about her makes Marco unnerved enough to take another small step back.

“S-Sorry, I just.. I wanted to know who was out here so early..” Marco replies quietly, keeping a wary eye on the torch the young woman is still holding out towards him. She just stares back at him, silent, and Marco exhales softly with relief when she finally lowers the torch. “I don't think I've seen you around here before.. Are, uh.. are you new to the castle?”

“..Yes.”

“Ahh.. Do you know how to get to.. wherever you’re going?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.. Uh, I’m Marco, by the way.. What’s your-?”

“Annie.”

“Annie.” Marco repeats, feeling even more unsettled by the blonde woman’s curt replies. She still stares at him as he briefly looks her over, her pale blue eyes nearly void of emotion, and Marco feels a few droplets of sweat starting to bead on the back of his neck. He’s not sure if it’s from the closeness of the torch or because of Annie’s chilling gaze, but either way, he doesn’t like it.

“You seem.. familiar.” Marco finally mutters, his brow furrowing a little as he looks the blonde girl over again. He’s certain that he’s never seen her face until now, but her presence still feels like one he’s felt before. "Um.. Have I met you somewhere before, Annie?"

“We haven’t met.” Annie replies promptly, raising her torch again as she steps around him and continues on down the hallway. “But I’ve seen _you_ before.” Marco blinks, his eyes on the girl’s retreating form, and as Annie walks around the corner Marco suddenly recalls his time in the forest yesterday. She’d seen him before without him seeing her? Could she have been..?

“W-Wait, Annie!” Marco shouts as he suddenly strides forward and hurries after her. “Where you the one in the-?” Marco’s voice trails off as he steps around the corner, but instead of seeing Annie he sees nothing but the long length of a dark and empty hallway.

~~~.~~~

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming Up: Trost is running without a King and a few new faces start to put Jean on edge.


End file.
